


Machinations - Short Story Collection

by Maunakea



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi, See Chapter Warnings, Various Warnings Apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maunakea/pseuds/Maunakea
Summary: I decided to start a short story collection for all the one-shot ideas I have. Please pay attention to the warnings on each one, some stories will be light-hearted, but some will be grim-dark. I will tag each one with anything squicky, so make sure to avoid anything you won't enjoy. :)Chapter 1: (Overlord - IDW) "Always Someone Worse"Chapter 2: (Optimus – Reparations AU) "Recuperation "Chapter 3: (Combaticons - IDW) "You Have Been Deceived"Chapter 4: (Megatron/Optimus - G1) "Lost and Gone Forever"Chapter 5: (Optimus - Bayformers) "Sparkling Blues"Chapter 6: (Arcee/Galvatron - IDW) "Devotion"Chapter 7: (Megatron/Rodimus - IDW) "Gone Sideways"Chapter 8: (Megatron/Starscream - IDW) "Left Behind"Chapter 9: (Megatron/Optimus - Amalgamation) "Free Fall"





	1. (Overlord - IDW) Always Someone Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UNIVERSE: IDW  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Harassment, character death.

"Ah, Shockwave. As punctual as ever."

Megatron greeted his foremost scientist and current favorite, gesturing impatiently for Shockwave to join him. Megatron was standing in the main hall of a cathedral to Primus, posing under the large support arch. An impressive figure as always, his harsh lines and utilitarian colors were a stark contrast to the finery of the ancient church.

Furtive shapes moved in the periphery of the great church; the congregation was keen to avoid the newly arrived delegation. For Megatron was surrounded by some of the most imposing of his Decepticons — Starscream, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Overlord, and now Shockwave — and as the war had been raging for over a thousand vorns, their reputation for bloodshed was already legendary. As Shockwave was counted among that elite group, he was greeted warmly by Megatron, even though he was the last to arrive.

"For shame, Shockwave," said Starscream, his tone as withering as ever, and far less welcoming. "We've been waiting for _breems_ now. Wouldn't want to miss this _momentous_ occasion," and Starscream gestured towards the elaborate hallway towards a hand-carved set of doors. "We are just waiting for our most _gracious_ host to summon us."

Chief Justice Tyrest had brokered a meeting with Megatron and his Decepticons on neutral ground in the hopes of stemming further bloodshed. Having already met with Optimus Prime, Tyrest had managed to coax Megatron to meet with him for further talks, based on the list of possible concessions he'd received from a reluctant Optimus. It seemed Tyrest's best hope for peace — the two state option — was on the table, or at least, Megatron wanted it to seem that way.

"My apologies," said Shockwave, stiffly. "I was detained by a ... sensitive experiment." He didn't elaborate, not even at Megatron's lifted brow-ridge. Instead Shockwave offered his standard terse greetings and dismissed his escort and personal guard, the Rainmakers, after making clear that they were only free to wander under the condition that they caused no incident.

"They will find nothing of interest here," said Megatron, disdain evident in his voice. The surroundings were not to his taste as he despised religion in any form, particularly ones that displayed such lavish surroundings and fanciful costumes. The grandeur stunk of the old guard and so he was unimpressed.

"I'll second that," said Overlord, adding that there was "nothing but dusty old relics and even dustier old mechs in this place." Standing to Megatron’s left, Overlord had already wandered up and down the halls at his leisure. Now he sounded bored out of his processor.

Of all of them, Shockwave was the least put out by the surroundings. Taking his place at Megatron's side, Shockwave scanned over the nearest relics, artifacts, and various parchments with detached interest.

Not that the church was unimpressive, quite the opposite. The building was massive and ornate. It was heavily decorated and filled with all sorts of fragments of Cybertron's history as related to the church. Lining the walls were massive mirrors, acting as vid-screens. They reflected various scenes from Cybertron’s distant past and _that_ was the source of complaint, for instead of anything interesting, most of the vid-screens were showing scenes of past religious rites and sermons.

All of them were standard church fair — tedious, mundane, and monotonous — and Megatron eyed them critically. “They say the priests originally set up these screens and treated them as standard mirrors. They then used them to cast projections to manipulate and deceive the faithful,” he murmured, eyeing the vast mirror panels with distaste.

A master of deception Megatron may be, but he still had _some_ standards.

Shockwave glanced at the nearest one, his massive optic focusing on the images within. “The simple-mindedness of uneducated masses remain a boon to organized religion.” His singled optic whirred, readjusting as the wall mirror recording cut out, replaced by a gray static field, as if the panel was malfunctioning.

Acid Storm shuffled his pedes. “Want us to break them?”

The Rainmakers had only been standing there for a breem and they were already sharing Overlord's long-suffering expression. They wouldn’t mind a little sacrilegious rampage, as it would break up the tediousness of the afternoon. Alas, Megatron wouldn’t authorize it. Though the talks were nothing more then a farce to lull the Autobots into a false sense of security, Megatron took such deceptions very seriously. He was still doing his utmost to seem sincere. Damaging the home of one’s host was in poor taste.

“You desire entertainment,” a deep voice murmured out from the gray glass, the colorless depths swirling. “I could aid you with that.”

The Decepticons — all but Shockwave — bristled for the tone, but quickly settled. They were certain it was merely a programmed projection meant to alarm parishioners, a throwback to the deceptive priests of long ago.

Megatron was not impressed and said as much.

“Understandable,” the voice agreed. “For I am _here_ and you are _there_ , and never the two shall meet, would the paladins and priests of Primus have their way.”

“I’ve heard this story before,” said Sunstorm, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He was already bored out of his mind and so more inclined to entertain such foolishness. “You convince us to release you, and once you are free, you attack us. It’s the standard ghost story.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts and spirits,” Overlord said disdainfully, and behind him, Megatron tilted his helm in agreement.

“More things between heaven and hell,” replied the shadow voice, but before they could answer, one of Tyrest’s assistants arrived. He gestured for the honored guests to follow, and with a muttered, “finally,” Megatron turned and strode away.

Only Shockwave followed after, keeping pace. Everyone else was only present for show. They were expected to wait in the cathedral proper without destroying anything, or otherwise entertaining themselves.

The Rainmakers were less then thrilled. “So now what?” Sunstorm asked, and Acid Storm grumbled back, “now we _wait_.”

Overlord snorted at them, rattling off an easy insult that encompassed all seeker kind. Their reaction was suitably amusing and he was already warming to the topic. It pleased him how particularly they disliked him, as he’d been non-verbally harassing them since they'd arrived. Seekers were very body-sensitive, and after working closely with Starscream for megacycles, Overlord had some practice making them uncomfortable from a distance.

Vosian jets were particularly uppity and easy to rile, and he enjoyed their bristling immensely. But soon they grew wise to his nature and quickly moved off, and he found himself glancing around for something, _anything_ to provide distraction. Finding nothing, his optics returned to the gray, swirling mirror pane. His lips quirked.

"Show yourself," demanded Overlord. "I don't respect anyone too timid to show themselves."

The gray of the mirror pane rippled. An empty darkness stepped forward. It coalesced into a shadow wolf, heavy and imposing. The metal fur was the deepest black. Red optics shone brightly. Behind the shadow, the mirror-pane cleared to reveal a misty metal forest, native to one of Cybertron's southern continents. It was a vision of the past; such forests had all burned away for the war.

None of the Decepticons were impressed.

Dire wolves were the nightmares of the Metal Age, long since passed. And anyway, no true Decepticon feared mere beasts. Especially fake, supernatural ones. With noisy snorts and flicking wings, the Rainmakers turned their backs (always an insult from a Decepticon) and ignored the shadow.

Overlord was too bored to do the same. He just laughed instead. It was his best mocking laugh, but it didn't have the effect he was hoping for. The shadow wolf seemed unaffected by the mockery and merely waited for him to finish. He would have written it off as unsophisticated older programing, but for the faint ripple of dark fur, hinting at annoyance.

_Curious._

“The sconces,” the shadow voice murmured in offer. “For millennia they have burned without pause. Quiet them and I will show you the meaning of fear.”

Overlord burst out laughing again. “Really! You — a mere projection — are going to teach _me_ the meaning of fear. That ... that is _hysterical_. No, really, that is the most amusing thing I have heard in vorns. Ah well, at least you are more entertaining than dusty tomes.”

_Or prissy Vosian jets._

The Rainmakers were Overlord's only other option for entertainment and he would have enjoying sharpening his razor tongue on their haughty seeker sensibilities, but they were keeping their distance far too well. They shunned both the distasteful animal projection and, he was well aware, the even more distasteful grounder. Well, he outranked them and so they had to obey him regardless.

“Put them out,” Overlord ordered the Rainmakers. He waved at the sconces and then quirked his lips when they hesitated. “What?” he said with a slow blink, “How _else_ might I learn the true meaning of fear?”

It was less that he cared for the shadow wolf's offer and more that it was an opportunity to interact with the three seekers. Better yet, to boss them around a little. He felt a little curl of amusement when Sunstorm rolled his optics. But the seeker and his brothers didn't give Overlord any reason to up the ante. Instead they began to douse the sconces as ordered. 

Overlord frowned a little, disappointed at the lack of resistance. Little curls of pungent smoke puffed as the lights were extinguished one by one. None of the church elders were paying any attention and there were quite a few of the sconces; it would take a while.

“Perfect,” the shadow wolf hissed. He licked his lips as the candles began to darken, and as each one guttered out, he seemed a little more solid. He strode closer to the glass pane, and it seemed as if he stood directly behind the mirror glass, no matter the angle one viewed him from. It was an impressive feat of perspective.

Overlord didn’t bother to walk over, choosing to stay closer to the Rainmakers instead. He knew better then to indulge his fantasies of dragging them into the nearest enclosed space and making them scream, in more ways then one. But he did adjust his posture a bit, narrowing his optics and angling himself towards their wings. His interface panel warmed just a little when Ion Storm flinched and the others began to watch him nervously from the corner of their eyes.

Overlord was distracted from the tasty view when he saw the shadow wolf cock its head. It was as if the thing was taking his measure. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed to him that the projection liked what it saw. It shook its fur as if amused, recognizing a kindred spirit. For a meaningless distraction, it _was_ pretty entertaining.

“Now,” the shadow announced, “For a real match, we must agree on terms.”

“Terms?” and Overlord cocked a brow ridge. Then he folded his arms over his chest, suspicious. He didn’t like limitations in bouts, even imaginary ones. "Terms are for the weak."

“What are we, animals?” and the darkness cocked an ear in amusement. The light was fading steadily now. Even the natural light filtering from the clear ceiling seemed to grow overcast and dim. Red eyes glowed malevolently as the light failed, matching Overlord’s in hue. _Puft, puft, puft,_ sang out the dying lights, and as the darkness deepened the wolf grew ever larger.

“Oh, you have no idea.” Overlord laughed then, rocking back on his heels. He knew this was all a distraction. The shadow wolf was merely a projection, and really, this back and forth was a waste of time at best. Still, the attention to detail was _fantastic_. The entire encounter felt like a page right out the old stories and he _did_ have time to waste. And anyway, contemplating a fight was better than staring at musty old relics and paintings.

“Fine, terms,” Overlord said, cracking his knuckles. “As you are a complete farce and this is a waste of time, I agree in advance. So go ahead and name them.”

The shadow wolf really liked that answer and his tail began to wag. It was a slow movement though; the back and forth motion of a wild canine that may or may not mean friendliness.

“One thousand lives,” said the shadow wolf, and he licked his gleaming teeth. “To prove you are a destroyer worthy of my time. Match me in lives and then we will fight; a battle to the death."

_Huh?_

“That’s called Tuesday,” said Overlord, amidst a disdainful sniff.  Of course this recording had no idea who he was or his primary occupation. A thousand lives taken was tea-time with scones, a walk in the park, amounting to little more than a nice nap on a summer’s afternoon.

The shadow wolf grinned, showing all his teeth. “Excellent, excellent. A simple task for one such as yourself, then. I look forward to our bout ... and to consuming your spark thereafter.”

Overlord stared, his lips quirking downward. Well, that wasn't any fun. He'd wanted to call the programming's bluff and end their little wager when the projection couldn't actually do what it was offering; teach him the meaning of fear. This little deal made sense though as a shiny-faced do-gooder would be horrified by such an offer, and that might mean lesson learned: don't deal with the devil.

Though if that was true, why would the projection offer to fight him at all? If the recording was programed to interact with worshipers from the distant past, wouldn't it offer something more valuable or appealing then a fight, and then demand the lives after? Or perhaps he had tipped it off somehow that mass slaughter was what he found appealing, the only thing that would have kept his attention?

 _That is one hell of a sensitive program,_ Overlord thought, though it was the end of this particular distraction. For although he absolutely _would_ have gone on a killing spree and returned with one thousand corpses just to see the program choke, there was one small problem.

Megatron had forbidden it.

_Bah._

Overlord was disappointed. Even worse, he was bored. Staring at seeker aft was starting to sound far more appealing then chatting with stupid projections, and so he turned to walk away. The objects of his vile affections were standing in a dark corner not far away, and three sets of pretty lips curled downward when they saw him heading their way.

"We put out the sconces like you said," Sunstorm called from the darkness, his bio-lighting shining prettily in the darkened corridor. His wings dropped with a _click_ when Acid Storm bumped him with a wing. _Don't encourage him,_ was the undertone to that little movement, and Overlord smiled.

_Too damned late..._

“One last thing,” called the shadow wolf after him, his tail stiff and still. “Crack the glass panel, so that I might enter the _sunlit lands_ and take my thousand lives. Otherwise, how will we battle?”

“Heh,” Overlord called back from over his shoulder, admitting defeat only because it didn't really matter. This thing wasn't real. “No can do. Deal's off. I’m under orders to behave today.”

“But you already agreed,” said the shadow wolf, licking his lips and dropping his head. His eyes gleamed in the deep dark. “The bargain is made. You cannot go back on your word now.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Overlord said, turning back. “You break the glass yourself, go kill your thousand, and come track me down after. I promise you I'll have met and surpassed your kill count in that time."

“You _empower me_ to commit this act in your name?” called the shadow wolf, and as he spoke his fur lifted, nearly standing on end.

Overlord waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever.” He was distracted. For down the corridor and in the main mall, Soundwave had just strode into the cathedral proper, and the ornately-armored guards stopped him there. They were giving him grief. Soundwave was arguing with them and the tiff looked interesting enough that Overlord decided to mosey on over.

“Disappointing that I can’t actually rend you limb from limb for being so annoying,” Overlord muttered to himself, now ignoring the dark projection as he strode towards Soundwave.

In the distance, Soundwave was growing more ignited and released his cassettes, who scattered in all directions. The guards shouted and several of them started chasing after Soundwave's little minions, much to their amusement.

Overlord stopped when Ravage appeared and passed him, sniffing and looking displeased. “Something happening?” asked Overlord, careful to keep the hope out of his voice. _Primus_ , he was so damned bored.

Ravage glanced back at him, clearly on edge. “Soundwave sensed something in here. Something bad. He isn’t authorized to enter and they are giving him trouble over it.”

“Heh,” Overlord said, but remained where he was. Soundwave wasn’t his favorite mech. Watching him being harried by the temple staff was more amusing then going over to back him up.

Then they both startled when a sharp _crishk_ sounded behind them, the jarring sound of a panel of glass cracking from side to side. Overlord looked back and blinked, surprised. The swirling gray was gone, replaced by the previous recording of some boring religious sermon, marred by the giant crack.

“That wasn’t me,” said Overlord, and he turned around and stared, cocking his head as Ravage padded towards the broken panel. There was no movement at the broken panel. Nothing to suggest anything odd was happening beyond the crack itself.

At this point Overlord had already put everything together; Soundwave sensing something odd, the crack in the panel suggesting he'd made some sort of deal with a devil, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe that some stupid old story might have any truth to it.

Instead Overlord watched as Ravage sniffed around the broken glass plane suspiciously. One sniff, two, and then Ravage seemed to see something beyond the glass. His plating lifted in alarm and he hunched down. “I can smell you," he hissed past the glass. "Why can I smell you? Recordings don’t have scent!”

There was a quiet reply, and Ravage's plating flared and he backed up as the shadow wolf stepped a massive paw out of the glass pane, and then the other, standing half in and half out of light and shadow; his sleek form straddling both worlds.

“And what do you smell?” asked the shadow wolf, sounding amused.

Ravage growled. “I smell blood.”

The shadow wolf vanished without another word. The sconces roared back into life, the little lights surging and illuminating the hall again, and then the reason for the scent became apparent.

The Rainmakers were skeletonized, slain and eaten without a sound. Paw prints circled all around them, a signature of sorts. The writer was standing a little ways off, coated in blood in the manner of a beast having feasted on wet corpses.

The shadow wolf looked satiated, but it seemed he had saved a little room for what was trapped within his jaws; three sparks glowed behind energon-stained teeth. Grinding them into energy shards, he swallowed with relish, the silver of his tongue slathering over gleaming teeth.

“Oh,” said Overlord as his paradigm shifted, forced to adjust to the idea that perhaps the horrors of yesteryear might have some weight to them. Next to him, Ravage activated his attention deflectors and vanished. And all the while, the shadow wolf watched the change with gleaming eyes, tracking the panther's swift retreat with ease.

The cathedral guards were less amused. They charged forward and then slid to a halt, lifting their ceremonial spears — and the less traditional blasters — with shocked expressions. For they recognized the creature standing before them; recognized him like one would an oft-told story character brought to life ... a creature that their ancestors had cowered from, had given countless lives to capture and contain behind a barrier that no one in their right mind would ever breech ... a creature with a name that meant death incarnate.

“Garamond,” one of them whispered, and the guards shared frightened looks. One of them remembered himself and fired his blaster, the shots passing harmlessly through the shadow wolf. The ceremonial spear was much the same.

“One thousand lives,” Garamond said to Overlord, baring his teeth. “Once you have reached that sum, I shall come, and then we fight.”

“You will be solid for the duration, of course,” said Overlord, having putting two and two together and not liking the sum. For how does one fight a being with no substance? You don’t, unless said insubstantial creature desires it.

“That wasn’t part of the terms,” Garamond said mildly.

Overlord was frowning now. He seemed keen to argue, but Garamond vanished back into the darkness of the glass … no longer a prison, but a doorway.

“This may have been a mistake,” Overlord mumbled to himself, thoroughly uncomfortable now. He'd easily be meeting that quota by tomorrow, especially once he returned to the battlefield. It seemed that he would have more on his plate then easily-vanquished Autobot soldiers.

Through the glass, there was a distant bark of laughter.

 

 


	2. (Optimus/Megatron - Reparations AU) Recuperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reparations AU, shortly after Prime was returned to his Autobots by IDW Megatron. You don’t need to read [ Reparations ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5722678/chapters/13185766) for this one to make sense. This is meant to be a standalone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hurt/comfort. Mentions of past captivity and G1 Megatron being a monster, but nothing too explicit.

A kiss of warmth upon his frame woke him.

Optimus opened his eyes to realize he was lying flat on his back, stretched out over the ground, which was surprisingly soft.

_Where...?_

He blinked several times to clear the static in his visual feeds. On the ground and looking up, he saw the cheerful greenery of treetops and beyond them, blue skies crowned with puffy white clouds. In the distance, a mountain loomed, and on its side jutted the blunt end of an old spaceship, as familiar to him as the back of his servo.

Realization dawned, and Optimus sucked in a breath.

"Earth..."

At first he was too stunned to move.

He’d gone from slavery to freedom over the course of a single day and he was still confused and reeling for the unlikely rescue; involving a quantum ship and inter-dimensional jumping, all orchestrated by a kinder version of Megatron.

Megatron of the _Lost Light_ had insisted Optimus was a guest and had promised to release him, even while keeping him captive. Optimus had been offered the ridiculous story while being cleaned and sequestered in a tiny room for a cycle. Then Megatron had wrapped him in a tarp for a supposed release on Earth.

Optimus hadn’t believed any of it.

His owner — the Megatron he’d dedicated his life to fighting against — had played all sorts of mind games with him over the course of his captivity. This rescue had seemed such a farce. He’d expected the worst sort of treatment when he called Megatron on his lies, but his disbelief had been challenged over and over.

On his last legs and desperate, Optimus had dared let hope take root, even knowing he was likely deceived. Even knowing the truth would finish him.

And now... _this_.

He felt the caress of warm wind over his plating, heard the happy buzz of a honeybee zinging past his audial, and amazingly, he saw a kind smile from his rescuer. _Not a trick. Not a game. It’s over. It’s finally … over._

He still had trouble believing it, but Megatron of the _Lost Light_ had been telling the truth. This _was_ a rescue, and not some sick game by the monster who’d been slowly murdering him.

“Get up, Prime. Your Autobots are on the way.”

Optimus felt a confused surge from his spark. This mech had saved him, had comforted him throughout the night, had proven his kindly intentions, and yet that voice still distressed him to his core.

Long months spent in captivity had taught him that he had only kliks to obey before grievous punishment rained down upon him. His response to that voice was ingrained; a yank on his collar, a harsh kick to his frame, a twist of cruel fingers, and a smirk-drenched cruelty that never faltered … these things had left their mark upon him.

He couldn’t stop trembling, and Megatron’s voice triggered his spark to skip a beat. Conditioned to obey, he struggled to his pedes even as he heard others approaching. A moment later he recognized his Ark-based Autobots — the entire gun-toting mass of them — and saw them charging towards him.

 _They are coming for me,_ Optimus thought and he sagged in relief. He took a stumbling step towards them, nearly falling to his knees. His limbs felt like jelly. He was a complete mess and it showed.

Optimus faded in and out for a moment, overwhelmed.

_Free at last, free at last..._

The sound of retreating tank treads roused Optimus, and he turned and called after Megatron of the _Lost Light_. He remembered being scrubbed down, he remembered fighting, and he remembered giving his rescuer all manners of trouble.

Now all he wanted was to thank him.

His gratitude was overflowing from his spark, but the opportunity to express it was already lost. The few critical seconds he could have used to thank his rescuer had passed him by. Then one of his Autobots shouted for him.

Optimus straightened, forcing himself to stay on his pedes. His shaking legs, tattered plating and pale, peeling paint begged to differ, but he wanted to seem strong for them. It was far from the truth, but he tried.

Sideswipe reached him first.

The stout front-liner tackle-hugged him right into the ground. He had no complaints and returned every embrace as his precious Autobots overwhelmed his position. They piled over the top of him — he could feel their concern and relief and love and rage at his condition through their electromagnetic fields — and he all but wept for relief and joy.

Optimus’ rescuer had wisely fled by that point. His resemblance to Megatron the Destroyer was uncanny, too much so to expect mercy even with Optimus’ muddled attempt to explain things. “He rescued me,” was too much to accept coming from the shaking Prime.

Sideswipe mouthed ‘circulatory shock’ over Optimus’ helm at a confused-looking Sunstreaker.

Moments later the Dinobots thundered past. “Me Grimlock! SMASH!” and with Grimlock in the lead, the Dinobots chased after the fleeing tank, hell-bent on inflicting brutal vengeance. Primus knew the real Megatron deserved it.

Fortunately, Megatron of the Lost Light made good his escape. It was later understood that he wasn’t the monster everyone assumed him to be. But right now, Optimus dominated everyone’s attention.

“You escaped!” and Bumblebee managed to burrow through layers of exuberant mechanicals to reach Optimus, and with a soft murmur of greeting, Optimus closed his optics and crushed the little minibot close.

Ratchet, however, had no respect for the warm moment. “Can’t you see how damaged he is?! Get out of my way!”

“Git off him!” Ironhide shouted, for all the good it did.

Too many sparks filled to bursting, too much overflowing joy, and even Ratchet’s shouts, warnings, and threats couldn’t clear the way.

It was Ironhide who finally dug Optimus out from all the ecstatic hugs. He flung his Prime over his shoulder like a sack of bolts and jogged back to the safety of the Ark — more specifically the medbay — while Ratchet scanned the ever living hell out of Optimus as he dangled.

Cheek pressed against Ironhide’s back, Optimus would have relaxed if he could, but there was a tightness all throughout him, and Ratchet looked concerned.

Bumblebee kept pace, careful to stay out of Ratchet’s way as he chattered at Optimus. “There are lots of us here! After the Decepticons overran Moonbase II and the Ark, the Earth Defense Forces rallied. Not long after you were taken captive, they banded together and managed to drive the ‘Cons off Earth.”

That was hard to believe. Optimus wanted to know more, but his vocalizer was giving him trouble. It was grinding hot in his throat, and so he huffed questioningly at Bumblebee, who continued without missing a beat.

"They built sparkless mecha – they call them _jaegers_ – and they use them to defend Earth from further attacks. They uplink and pilot them in teams, and with our help, the Decepticons have been repelled every single time. We negotiated an alliance with them and Sky Lynx, Jetfire, and even Cosmos has been ferrying any Autobots we can reach to our base here–”

“This can wait,” Ratchet said, not liking the way Optimus was struggling to follow the conversation, and Ironhide grunted agreement.

Optimus coughed static in protest.

Beyond a mighty need for good news, he’d dearly missed Bumblebee’s friendly chattering, and wanted more of it, not less. But the warning look on Ratchet’s face was all too familiar, and he stopped protesting.

 _I’m really back_ , and Optimus found himself struggling to process that.

It all seemed like a hazy dream … or he was falling unconscious again. He tried to focus on what Bumblebee was saying, and found he couldn’t. But the sound of Bumblebee’s kind voice, Ironhide’s worried grunts, and Ratchet’s harsh grumbling was music to his audials.

They serenaded him offline.

*******

 

Ratchet knew Optimus well; they’d been friends from before the war.

And so Ratchet saw right through his Prime’s attempts to appear strong. He could tell his old friend wasn't as functional as he seemed. To the medic’s keen eye, Optimus’ injuries were extensive, and his scans proved him right. Once they reached the medbay he’d gone straight to work on Optimus, only to discover that the rabbit hole ran deep.

Standard Decepticon protocol for injured Autobots had been in effect; repairs had been little more than patches-over-patches. They'd plugged up Optimus’ wounds just enough that he wouldn’t offline, then sent him straight back to his tormentor for more.

It would be a massive undertaking to get him back to proper functioning. Major surgery was required just to tear out the mess the enemy physicians had made of Optimus’ internals, and repairs would be even more so.  

It seemed the more Ratchet worked, the bigger the mess he uncovered. “Everything is rusting,” he snarled, waving at First Aid for a replacement micro-welder. “He has multiple infections all throughout his system.”

First Aid handed Ratchet the implement, then pointed at the nearby readout. “His entire nervous system is in a state of hyper stimulation. Adrenal pathways are saturated with stimulants, and parasympathetic subroutines are malfunctioning.”

“He can’t relax,” Ratchet translated, and scowled. “A result of maniac stress response sustained over a long period of time — no surprise there.”

Standing guard at the door, Ironhide listened to the medics with a pensive frown. He was off-shift and didn’t have to stay, but refused to leave. Stalwart and loyal, he’d always watched Optimus’ back, and was doing so ferociously now.

Out in the hallway, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were also standing guard. They were off too, but like Ironhide, they needed to help in some tangible way. They were of the rough and tumble sort — too boisterous to stay in the medbay for very long — and Ratchet had put his foot down early. But there was no chasing Ironhide off.

Prime’s bodyguard stood tall, a blocky mass of red armor with his hands folded stiffly over his chest, and Ratchet didn’t bother to try. It helped that Ironhide knew to stay quiet and out of the way.

The gaggle of mini-bots that crept in a few joors later — led by Bumblebee — were less sensible.

“How is he?” Bumblebee asked while Windcharger, Gears, Huffer, and Cliffjumper tried to creep close enough to see their Prime. It wasn’t easy, buried as he was under beeping monitors, micro-fiber towels, temp patches, support tubes, and a fluid-coated and _very_ tetchy Ratchet.

“He looks horrible,” Windcharger mumbled, his face downcast.

Cliffjumper clenched his fists. “You heard what Megs did to him.” There had been rumors. Some of them unspeakable, and from the look of things many of the uglier stories had been true.

“’Cons are gonna pay,” Ironhide assured them, his tone growing harsh. “Prowl’s new procedures are going into effect no matter what. Those fraggers are going to get what’s coming to ‘em. No mercy, not anymore.”

The new procedures had been put together by Prowl and Jazz, entirely without Optimus’ gentler influence. They were suitably … harsh.

“About time,” Cliffjumper agreed, and the other minis nodded amongst each other. They were all staying back, but it wasn’t long before Bumblebee’s yellow horns peeked over the edge of the berth, opposite to Ratchet.

There was a tremor under Optimus’ armor, a steady shivering that would not subside, no matter how deeply he was sedated. It was coming from his deeper places — some of which Ratchet was currently bustling over — and more than anything, ‘Bee wanted to comfort him. Even though he knew better, he still risked Ratchet’s ire to place his hand over a still-solid tract of Optimus’ shoulder-armor.

“Oh hey now, take it easy,” Bumblebee murmured into Prime’s audial. “Everyone’s here. You’re safe with us.”

“He’ll be alright!” Ratchet snapped over his shoulder, growling down at all the sad little faces. Sensitive communicator, he was not.

The situation _was_ unusual, but Ratchet was growing frustrated with the disturbance, no matter how well-meaning. Normally mechs would never crowd the medbay like this. He understood, he really did, but it was still unacceptable. He would have dealt with it himself but didn’t dare take his attention from his work. Instead, he threw something messy and stinking — a rotting piece of microfiber cloth some quack had left inside Prime’s anterior cavity — and shot Ironhide a pointed look and then dove back in.

Ironhide didn’t need a second prompt. “Clear the medbay,” he ordered, waving at the gaggle of anxious minis. “You’ll getta chance to spend some time with ‘em later. Right now he needs Ratchet.”

Everyone nodded, but still dragged their pedes while heading for the door. Of the minis, Bumblebee was the last to leave. Their reluctance was understood and shared by all around them. Everyone wanted to help, though there wasn’t much anyone could do.

Not until Ratchet was done with him. That was going to be awhile and so Ratchet patched into the comms and laid down the law; Prime was in a delicate state and was currently off-limits for the time being.

That meant no visitors, well-wishers, or mini-bots offering to be teddy bears. No audial recordings, unauthorized comm contact, data pads containing anything work-related of any type, and _absolutely_ no Prowls bearing gifts of status reports, upon pain of Ratchet’s wrench upside the helm.

Meanwhile, everyone did everything they could to help, each in his own way; Ironhide stood guard, the Twins took position outside the medbay, Red Alert broke down under pressure and monitored the surgery so Jazz could man the comms and keep everyone updated, Prowl painstakingly stacked mountains of data pads on Prime’s desk, and the minis circled back around and were soon peeking out of every non-secured medbay crevice.

For his part, Ratchet ignored everyone and continued his repairs while cursing the Decepticons and their shoddy, careless work to the pit and back. He snipped and sliced and welded ceaselessly throughout the afternoon and late into the evening.

His steady hands worked miracles, and through them — and throughout the long, hard hours — shown his devotion to his dear friend and Prime.

 

*******

Optimus woke some time later.

The first thing he felt was sharp stabs of pain, pain, and more pain. The sound of medical equipment droned in his sensitive audials; the beeps and hums of monitoring equipment. He could smell disinfectant and cleansers and the lingering taint of internal fluid.

Sitting up proved impossible.

The supportive medical devices anchored him to the berth, particularly the feeding and sanitary tubes. Even shifting his frame served a warning; movement was unwise. His body was a roadmap of pain smothered under an impressive new collection of welds, stitching, and pain patches.

He groaned.

His rumble deepened when he couldn’t blink his optics. His face plate was a runny mess and he barely stifled an outright whine. He reached up and touched at his optics, then jerked his fingers back for the pain of messing with the medical implements he found there.

 _Optics being re-calibrated,_ Optimus realized.

He’d taken too many hits to the helm and a full recalibration had been necessary, along with … everything else. Apparently Ratchet hadn't wasted any time and it explained why his optics were so wet and blurry. The corners dripped rivers of optical fluid, a result of his frame’s futile attempts to wash out the healing action of the cathodes.

There was a sanitary towel wrapped around his neck to help sop up the mess, and Optimus stopped moving, not want to unplug anything or set off any alarms.

_Everything hurts!_

Soon he was entertaining unkind thoughts; that he’d felt better before being taken to the medbay. Except he knew it wasn’t really true. It was more that he'd grown used to functioning in torpor, only a few notches above deactivation. Now that his impressive collection of festering internal wounds had been opened and cleaned and welded back closed, the dull roar was ramped up to the ninth degree, and everything fragging _hurt_.

 _I want Bumblebee,_ was his next thought.

He and Bumblebee held a discreet but tightly-knit relationship with each other over the eons. During the worst of times, either of them served the role of “teddy bear” for the other. Usually ‘Bee would be nearby.

There was only one mech who could keep the little bot away, and with how damaged Optimus was, perhaps it was no surprise that Ratchet was being overly protective of him. It was likely he was keeping others away, especially after surgery. As such, there was no sign of Bumblebee, or at least not that he could tell.

His spark pulsed with anxiety.

He couldn’t see much, but his audials remained sensitive and he could hear mechs moving, working, and chatting all around him, along with the beeps and bleps of medical devices at work.

Then Ratchet’s voice pierced the haze around his processor.

“Pull down the emergency berths, even the cots, and make sure to wipe them down. They were stored clean, but haven’t been used for vorns.”

Optimus felt a wave of vertigo when he turned his helm towards Ratchet. His old friend sounded like he was giving orders to someone a few berths down from where Optimus was resting.

Ratchet was still talking, but his tone had changed from calm to exasperated annoyance. “Don’t worry your chevron, Prowl. Medbay will be ready for anything you throw at us.”

Feeling worse and worse, Optimus snatched at the distraction on offer. _Was something happening? Why are they prepping the medbay? Are the Decepticons going to attack?_

 _I should get up,_ though Optimus knew that was easier thought than done. He wasn’t sure he could stand, even if he managed to get upright enough to try.

“I want the twins with me,” Ironhide’s gruff tones carried from near the medbay door. Optimus perked up and focused on the sound of his voice.

Prowl answered in the negative. “I already assigned them to Jazz’s strike team.”

_Team?_

Optimus swallowed noisily and grabbed the edge of the med-berth to try and anchor himself. Dizziness was coming in waves, but he forced himself to focus on the voices in the distance. Something was definitely happening. He squinted, but his optics refused to make out more than colorful blobs.

“Yeah, so reassign ‘em. Jazz lets them get away with too much slag and their grandstanding will work against us. They need a firm hand, so put ‘em with me. I’ll make sure they stay on target.”

“I am well aware of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s propensity for flashy behavior. ‘Grandstanding’ is Jazz’s team’s objective as interference,” Prowl replied, patient as death. “I am confident in Jazz’s command abilities.”

Jazz’s smooth voice interrupted the argument, “Problem?”

“Naw, Jazz,” Ironhide said hastily, sounding startled. Jazz had pulled a, well, _Jazz_ and snuck up on them. “Just worried about a couple ‘o your team mates, seeing how you’re going to be drawing the most fire—”

It was then that Optimus realized they were planning some sort of rescue mission. _It must be for the other Autobots_. No small numbers of them still languished as slaves on Cybertron.

The thought of rescuing them lit a fire under Optimus’ aft.

His grip on the med-berth tightened. _Can’t fight with them,_ and even he had to acknowledge that. He was too injured. It was a bitter pill, but he swallowed it. _Can still help coordinate, need to be briefed immediately._

This time Optimus forced himself to sit up, fully intending to join them. The resulting shock of pain should have ended that plan right there, but thanks to his extended stay with Megatron, his unbearable pain threshold was much higher than it used to be.

“Prowl,” Optimus coughed out, trying to get his second’s attention. It backfired spectacularly. Ratchet came hurtling out of nowhere and expertly plopped Optimus right back onto the med berth.

 _Oh hell no,_ those stern optics insisted, and Ratchet checked several of the medical readouts and started in on the grumbles. It was as comforting as it was frustrating, and Optimus called for Prowl again.

“Hush now. You shouldn’t be online yet,” and Ratchet was already loading an injector.

“One moment,” Prowl said, edging between Ratchet and his patient, even though he knew it was the equivalent of stepping between a mama bear and her cub (i.e. stupidity on a deep and fundamental level) … and true to nature, Ratchet _did_ growl something rather unkind.

Nothing if not tactical, Prowl angled himself slightly towards the door just in case a stately-yet-speedy retreat was necessary... and then indulged Optimus as much as he dared.

“Prime,” Prowl said, laying his hand on Optimus’ shoulder. “We were preparing to launch a rescue operation for you, but you beat us to it. Command has decided to continue with our operations, only with a new target. There is a work group of Autobots within reach on Cybertron. We intend to see them freed.”

“I want to help—”

“Then get some rest,” Ratchet broke in, pushing Prowl away and injecting Optimus with something. “You aren’t leaving that berth until I am finished with you.”

“Don’t worry Prime,” Ironhide called from the door, “We’ll give ‘em hell for you.”

Optimus knew better than to argue. He watched miserably as Ratchet gave him yet another shot. He recognized the concoction; one that should dull his senses and have him relaxing back into a healing stasis.

Curiously, it did neither.

Instead, Optimus heard his command team head off, still arguing over who was being assigned where. A few breems later and the medication still hadn’t put him under, and he lay awake, longing to follow after them.

He heard Ratchet not far away and kept quiet in the hopes of remaining awake and aware. He’d always disliked being sedated and out of the loop. It was an old habit, and perhaps not for the best. But he was too uncomfortable to hold still for long and the second time he tried to stretch his lower back-strut, Ratchet saw him move.

More cursing ensued.

Around the colorful language, Optimus was able to make out some of the problem. Apparently the various nasty substances he’d been drugged with all throughout his captivity — intended to keep him weak and manageable — weren’t clearing from his systems. They were interacting with anything new he was given, and so he wasn’t responding to standard medications like he should.

“Optimus,” said Ratchet while leaning over him, “rate your pain level from one to ten.”

“Two,” Optimus mumbled, which was a complete and utter lie. _Best stay awake, best get back to work_.

His thoughts were stunted, and beyond the pain, he was spark-sick and aching to his core. Some part of him felt if he just leapt back into his old life that this hideous ball of anguish deep inside would leave him. His spark knew better, but his mind persisted. It was how he normally handled times of deep distress, at least, when Bumblebee wasn’t around.

Ratchet scowled at him, having already surmised the true number, somewhere in the higher ranges. He looked over his shoulder at First Aid and said, “He shouldn’t be awake so soon after surgery. We need to adjust his sedatives again.”

 _Should get up, should clear the berth. Going to have injured arriving soon,_ Optimus told himself, and he clenched his fingers around the berth-edge again.

Another old habit.

He was just about to offer resting in his quarters as a solution, but Ratchet must have caught his thought; his eye-ridges furrowed dangerously.

_Perhaps not._

“Where, Bumblebee?” Optimus mumbled instead, and for Ratchet it was confirmation that Primal Shenanigans were afoot. There was a precept set for the Prime checking himself out of the medbay early, so long as Bumblebee was with him.

That was under normal circumstances, of which these were _not_.

Optimus started mumbling his standard executive orders allowing release from the medbay under emergency situations even as First Aid clamped a hand over his audials and Ratchet dove for the injector.

It wouldn’t have worked anyway, but thanks to Optimus’ wrecked internals, Ratchet had to work to put him back under. In the meantime, Optimus tried to demand, order, and then plead to be left online, pain or no.

That argument ended as it always did when Optimus couldn’t back up verbal insisting with physical motion; resting comfortably after being sedated to the Pit and back.

Optimus felt a kindly touch at his shoulder.

“We will talk about this later,” Ratchet said as his consciousness faded away.

 

*******

The medbay lights were powered down for the night cycle.

It was the first thing Optimus noticed when his processor began sending his thoughts down proper pathways again. Something had roused him, but he wasn’t sure what. He was surprised to realize how long he’d been out … almost two full cycles.

 _Ratchet must have worked something out,_ and Optimus remembered to leave his hands away from his optics this time. They were still opaque, taped over to keep him from moving and otherwise irritating them as they healed. It made it impossible to see anything with any clarity.

Still, he did feel a little more stable than the previous cycle. He'd barely dreamed; his drugged mind had only dared venture into the darker waters of memory as he surfaced. Thankfully he woke before they became too tangible.

There was much for his subconscious to draw from; his life had been reduced to a horrifying blur near the end of his captivity. Those first horrifying weeks at Megatron’s feet saw Optimus come out of recharge fighting.

He’d fought hard all throughout, only falling to pieces near the end. He’d succumbed to naked fear, staggering after his owner in exhaustion, his frame rattling from a strut-deep trembling that would not subside. The last was both mental and physical, something he could no longer suppress, much to Megatron’s delight.

He’d been mere days from the cold release of deactivation when he’d been rescued. Those memories were too near, and it would be some time before his frame accepted what his mind already knew; that he was a free mech once more.

_He was safe._

But this was only day three of his return to normalcy, and so he was shaking when he came out of his first honest recharge cycle. He calmed when instead of the dog-chain binding him to the floor — next to a perpetually empty bowl with his name printed on it — the cord connected to his neck was a medical sensor.

Instinct had him reach down and tap at his comms, mumbling “Bumblebee?” and he grew distraught when the comm line didn’t go through. Apparently Ratchet had locked everything down so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

He understood that. He knew he needed to rest, but he was still upset. Thanks to his drugged state, reason was second to emotion, and he was worrying at his comm panel when faint rustling noises caught his attention. They were coming from all around him.

Optimus perked up a little. “Bumblebee?”

Someone mumbled something from the floor. The words were garbled from sleep, and Optimus sagged when the voice wasn’t Bumblebee’s. He focused on the sounds, and then finally realized the source of the rustling. It seemed he’d missed all the excitement, as the results of Prowl’s rescue mission were all around him.

There were battered-looking Autobots resting absolutely everywhere.

Smaller ones shared med-berths, cuddling together for comfort. Larger ones were propped up against the walls. All were patched up and most were being treated for prolonged starvation. Most had energon drips, hanging from temporary hooks on the walls. Most were asleep, probably enjoying their first real recharge in some time, and it warmed Optimus’ spark to see so many rescued.

“I have this under control. Return to your berth, please. You need to rest.”

First Aid’s voice stood out over all the rustling, and Optimus peered in that direction. He couldn’t see very well thanks to the medical tape over his optics, but he was able to place First Aid at the far end of the medical bay.

There were several voices talking, and from the sound of things, First Aid had a tiny mech — Optimus recognized the voice and recalled the mini’s name was Rewind — in one of the sinks and was gently scrubbing the little fellow down.

Next to him, another mech — his name was Chromedome — was trying to help, and First Aid was protesting while Rewind was telling his conjunx to “go lie down for spark’s sake, you are worse off than I am” and when that didn’t work First Aid became more aggressive, ordering the unsteady Chromedome to lay back on his med-berth _or else_.

That First Aid had to raise his voice was proof Ratchet wasn’t around, which meant First Aid was manning the night shift on his own.

 _Should do something to help,_ Optimus thought, and his spark ached to hear so many Autobots in such discomfort. Sounds of rustling and coughing and the scrip-scrape of uncomfortable squirming were all around him.

It seemed Ratchet was keeping the new arrivals in the medbay for treatment and observation, and there weren’t enough berths. Thankfully most were stable, but Optimus felt bad for taking up an entire med-berth when several smaller bots could be sharing his.

 _Far more comfortable than the floor._ _I am not so bad off …_ and yet he knew he wasn’t being truthful with himself. He was still covered in various compresses and bandages, and pungent antiseptic oils coated his still-healing weld-lines.

Optimus knew himself for a total wreck, but helping others was more important to him. _I’ll just go rest in my quarters._

Thanks to all the drugs in his system, it took Optimus longer than usual to shut down the medical alert system attached to him. He managed though, and then squirmed off the med-berth and struggled to his feet.

First Aid didn’t notice, though it might have been better if he had. For Optimus was shaking dreadfully, and not only for his physical state. Even so, he still managed to lift and settle a few of the closest mechs onto his med-berth with its soft padding. Their sleepy sighs of comfort made his own discomfort worth it.

He stepped back, his legs trembling. His quarters were on the opposite side of the Ark, and suddenly that walk seemed daunting. Hurting, he thought of Bumblebee and changed his destination.

Bee’s quarters were much closer, and he knew he was welcome; he always was. There was a storm building within his spark chamber and he badly needed to see his little friend.

“Lay back down,” First Aid’s firm tones confirmed he was still distracted, “and let me finish with Rewind. This is your last warning, or I _will_ sedate you for the night!”

 _Best hurry,_ Optimus thought.

None of the Autobots even stirred as Optimus shuffled past them, suggesting they were either sedated or, more likely, just that exhausted. It didn’t surprise him. The Decepticons had been unspeakably brutal taskmasters.

Rumbling softly, Optimus reached the medbay exit, still struggling to find his balance. The longer he was on his feet, the worse he felt. The drug combination he was coming down from was _fantastic_ and it was only First Aid’s complete distraction that allowed him to even try and make an escape.

He sensed he was going downhill fast, and knew he needed to hurry and find Bumblebee.  He staggered out into the hall, hesitating for a clattering sound that followed after him.

_Hhn?_

His optics were running like faucets. Everything was so blurry that he hadn’t realized he was dragging a pile of electrodes and snapped off support tubes behind him. He must have missed a few.

 _Ratchet will be furious_ , and Optimus felt a pang of guilt as he removed and subspaced them, especially since there was a good chance that Ironhide or Wheeljack had dragged Ratchet out by his chevron to get some rest. It was the only explanation for why he wasn’t being pounced on, sedated within an inch of his skidplate, and dragged back to the med berth.

Too late now; the damage was done.  

The fallout for leaving the medbay would be epic, and ordinarily Optimus would have obeyed his chief medical officer... at least until he could officially force the issue. _Should go back..._ but he’d already convinced himself that others needed his berth more, and right now he needed to see one mech above all others.

 _Where is Bumblebee,_ was his driving thought. He tapped at his comms over and over again, the movement almost instinctive, if entirely useless.

Then, like magic, a Bumblebee-sized mech appeared before him. His blurry optics and the roar of his fuel pump in his audials — not to mention all the post surgery pain medications — made it impossible to make out anything more pertinent than size. To his drug-addled processor, he’d found what he was looking for.

Optimus lurched forward and hugged his dear little friend, lifting the mini-bot right off the floor. He could feel the affection and concern in the mini’s electromagnetic fields, and he buried his head against the mini for a moment.

“Optimus, sir? Are you alright?”

“I … don’t feel well,” Optimus admitted woozily. The mini didn’t sound like Bumblebee, but he was crashing hard and that little detail only flitted around his slowing processor. It couldn’t land to become a fully-fledged thought.

“Shouldn’t you be in the medbay?”

That question _did_ penetrate the fog, and Optimus wobbled a little, then tilted his helm back. “No,” he said firmly, and that was that.

Or maybe not.

But Optimus didn’t process any response after that; he couldn’t focus anymore. He turned in place, wobbling while looking for his quarters. _Too far away_ , he realized, and then remembered he was heading for Bee’s quarters.

He grew confused and started shuffling towards one of the empty rooms instead. There was a lump forming at the back of his throat, and his spark was churning. More than anything he wanted a quiet place for the batcher of all breakdowns. It was long in the coming; staved off through sheer will for the pleasure Megatron would have taken from watching him come apart at the seams.

Surrounded by his Autobots, Optimus found he couldn’t hold back the flood anymore. Another few tottering steps and then there was another mini-bot before him, this one _definitely_ yellow, and Optimus hesitated.

His drugged state meant he’d forgotten he’d picked up Bumblebee already, and so Optimus picked him up again. Now he had _two_ Bumblebees and though that didn’t seem right, they were hugging him as hard as he was hugging them, and that was good.

Hugs were good.

_Good, hugs, were…_

“Need quiet,” Optimus whispered as he buried his face into Bumblebee’s frame, “not med bay. Need quiet and … alone.”

That was code for _falling apart, please help! …_ and Bumblebee understood and for that Optimus was eternally grateful. Then there was a third Bumblebee, hugging him and pulling on him, guiding him towards somewhere dark and quiet.

“You are a good friend, Bumblebee,” Optimus slurred, gathering up the third Bumblebee who was red for some reason, but, okay.

The light of the hallway gave way to the comforting dark of a room, and he reluctantly let the Bumblebees wiggle free of his embrace. They helped him up on a spare berth, and Optimus stretched out with a moan. He sucked in a deep breath, the air whistling through his battered vents.

He stuttered over Bumblebee’s name, stretching out his arms and all the Bumblebees settled all around him as he shook and shook. His battered electromagnetic field was storming, but each mini-bot pierced the tempest with their own fields, pulsing affection into the mess, and that helped anchor him.

He didn’t have much optical fluid left in him when he finally drifted off, feeling truly safe for the first time in a long time.

 

*******

 

The room was actually a utility closet with a fold-out berth for the few times there were more Autobots then berths.

It was just fine.

“Here, get this under his helm,” Gears said over the mini-bot’s private comms. He helped Bumblebee tuck another pilfered pillow under Optimus’ helm, all the while ducking Prime’s insistent clutching.

The weeping had eased late into the night, and Optimus was much calmer. He was drifting in and out of the deeper levels of recharge now that he was more emotionally stable, but he wasn’t as comfortable as he could be. His squirming was affecting his recharge, and so the minis had crept up to do something about it.

Optimus was too exhausted to fully resurface, but he still sensed some of his Bumblebees were missing. He would reach for them when their EM fields brushed over his. It was well known that he held a soft spot for mini-bots of all shapes and colors and everyone else was already on board with smuggling (and then snuggling) Optimus so he could sleep better.

“–calling in that favor you owe me,” Bumblebee was saying into comms, his real-time vocalizer otherwise muted. “Yeah I know, but it was a huge favor, right?”

“They going to play ball?’ Cliffjumper asked when Bumblebee killed the line.

Bumblebee smiled and flashed a thumbs up (an appropriated human custom) and added, “they agreed _and_ they are even calling in a favor of their own for us.” He signed the Cybertronian glyph for music and the other minis grinned.

Meanwhile, Gears was busy tucking more pillows around Beloved Leader while dodging the next attempt by Optimus to reach for him.

Cliffjumper was already tucked under Optimus’ arm, but Optimus was still trying to gather up the others. He finally managed to snag Gears and pulled him close, nuzzling him. Still drugged out of his processor, his affection for them knew no bounds, and neither Gears nor any of the other minis took offense at answering to the name of “Bumblebee” for the night.

If Optimus thought he was cuddling Bumblebee, he was happy to be getting bee-cuddles in stereo. Scratch that. Five mini-bots = surround sound cuddles. Except one of the gang was being difficult, and there were no prizes awarded for guessing who.

“Explain again why we aren’t escorting Prime straight back to the medbay,” Huffer insisted over private comms, while the others sighed.

“Because he asked us not to,” Gears snapped. “He wants to sleep somewhere safe with ‘Bee. He does it all the time and it’s not dangerous, hell, Ratchet let _Prowl_ talk to Optimus right after his surgery.”

Huffer didn’t look convinced.

The argument had started the moment a shuffling Optimus surprised Huffer in the hallway, adding him to the pile of mini-bots he was collecting. The gang’s back and forth was conducted entirely over internal comms so to avoid disturbing Optimus, who was drifting in and out of recharge, slipping a little deeper each time for a growing sense of safety and comfort, and further helped along when Bumblebee snuck out and snatched Prime’s pain meds from the medbay.

And to be fair, it wasn’t that Huffer had any issue comforting his Prime. Not at all, he was as happy as any of them to help. No, the issue was _Ratchet_ and what was going to happen when The Hatchet took command of a medbay sans Prime come the morning shift. It wasn’t going to be pretty. It wasn’t going to be pretty and Huffer felt obliged to mention that little fact.

Frequently.

“I’m _just_ saying,” Huffer started again, “that the front-liners have a saying and it goes ‘he who defies the Ratchet gets the Hatchet’ and they aren’t kidding!”

“And I’m _just_ saying, you don’t let Prowl at a mech on his deathbed,” Cliffjumper replied, adding “If Prime was stable enough to listen to commander-stick-up-his-aft run his fragging vocalizer then that means” — and here Cliffjumper paused as Optimus mumbled something and nuzzled him  — “that he’s okay enough to decide where he wants to sleep tonight.”

Huffer dodged another feeble grab from Optimus while protesting, “Yeah, but Ratchet was there and he only let Prowl talk about _emergency stuff_!”

“There is no ‘emergency stuff’ unless the patient can handle it,” Bumblebee said patiently. “You know how protective the medical staff is around here.”

“But—”

“Ratchet needs to recharge too,” Bumblebee continued, ever the kindly voice of reason. “Wheeljack and Ironhide had to wrestle him back to his quarters. First Aid’s no better. I am a trained medical aid, and at the first sign of trouble, I will call Ratchet myself.”

Huffer sniffed at that. “I still say we should call Ratchet and get permission—”

The other mini-bots shared a look.

“I’ll get the stasis cuffs,” Cliffjumper said with a long-suffering sigh.

“And a gag!” Windcharger piped up from his position across Prime’s front. Large truck fingers were wrapped around the mini, and Optimus was hugging the entire mass of mini-bots close. They were careful for his wounds and welds and stitches, not that he seemed to care.

“I’m on board, I’m on board!” Huffer changed his tune instantly.

Huffer was well aware this plucky little gang would absolutely tie him up for the night if he wasn’t going to be a team player. It was all for naught anyway, as Huffer mistimed his next duck and Optimus snagged him, tucking him close.

Snug under Optimus’ other arm, Huffer wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Cliffjumper eyed him, exchanging looks with the other minis. They still weren’t convinced, and with a sigh, Huffer pinkie-promised (another appropriated human custom) to keep quiet and that was the end of that.

Then everyone froze when Optimus jolted awake. His EM fields went from sleepy pulsing to startled awareness. “Wind … charger,” he mumbled, blinking owlishly at the mini-bot nestled across his front. “Hope I … haven’t behaved … inappropriately.”

Now that Optimus was back to resting, his drug-addled processor was sending his thoughts down proper circuit lines. It was amazing how much better he felt when he wasn’t tottering around in the hall and aggravating his injuries.

Multiple sets of optics softened, and Windcharger hugged his Prime. “Of course not Prime. We’re all just worried about you and came to give Bumblebee a hand. You don’t mind some company, do you?”

They all knew he didn’t.

Not from the way he was still clutching at them. Not from the way he smiled at Bumblebee, tucked under his neck. And especially not from the way his electromagnetic fields pulsed affection right back at them.

Optimus tried to answer but ended up fielding a coughing fit instead, and at their patting and cooing, he quieted down. Several heavy huffs later and he pulled them all a little closer, positively buried under a thick mini-bot blanket.

“Medbay is full,” Optimus huffed softly, sounding a little tense. He was worried they might summon Ratchet, but he really wanted to stay put. He was so much more comfortable surrounded by his Autobots.

Especially Bumblebee.

“We will keep an optic on you tonight. Don’t worry about it,” Bumblebee assured Optimus, who made a relieved sound low in his chest, and laid his helm back down. He seemed startled — and quite pleased — to encounter the soft pillow.

It was a comforted Prime that drifted back off to sleep as Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, Gears, Huffer, and Windcharger settled down for the rest of night cycle, all of them pulsing affection through the settling ocean that was Optimus’ electromagnetic fields.

 

*******

 

Ratchet’s first warning that he was short a Prime was when every single mech in the Ark fled when they saw him coming down the hallway.

The first time he’d written off as a fluke, as Inferno had a reason to vacate his immediate vicinity. In fact, mechs routinely fled from him if they’d missed their appointments, like Inferno had.

Missing a normal appointment was an automatic upgrade to a full physical, unless _Primus himself_ showed up with a detailed permission slip, complete with apology for whatever celestial disaster had kept the delinquent from showing up.

That was the rule, and everyone knew it.

“Medbay! Fifteen breems! Don’t make me sic the twins on your sorry aft!” Ratchet had shouted after the panicking Inferno.

Yes, Ratchet already had a medbay full of recovering Autobots to fuss over, but he’d work this one in. Everyone not named “Optimus Prime” was in decent enough shape, considering where they’d been just a few days previous.

But the second time a mech ducked the other way… now _that_ was a clear hint that his wrench was going to get a workout. Thus, Ratchet’s back was already up, and so he wasn’t surprised when his suspicions were confirmed the instant he entered medbay.

Sure enough, Prime’s medical berth was empty.

Ratchet’s hands dropped to his hips as he surveyed the situation. His lips settled downward like the receding coastline before a deafening tsunami.

One optic brow twitched.

First Aid looked like a turbo-deer caught in headlights. “He got away,” he said in a rush, raising his hands in surrender. “Even put a few of the smaller patients in his berth instead.”

Ratchet scowled.

“What do we do?” First Aid asked, looking contrite.

Behind him, Rewind and Chromedome were snoozing together on their shared berth, and a battered-looking survivor snatched up someone’s unattended mug of energon and chugged it like he expected someone to slap it out of his hand.

“Hey, is there a problem?” Sideswipe called from the hallway, holding a steaming cup of energon in his hand.

Ratchet made a fist. “Unleash the hounds.”

 

*******

 

Jazz was whistling a jaunty tune as he walked down the hallway.

The rest of Command was coming down the opposite way. Prowl was serenely calm, his door-wings floating out behind him, but Ironhide looked peeved.

Red Alert’s voice was tinny-sounding, coming from Prowl’s wrist communicator. He sounded as irritated as Ironhide looked. “I've been checking the logs to find the mini-bots, but some of the records have been tampered with,” and Red Alert’s tone left the realm of ‘irritated’ to arrive in the land of ‘personally offended.’

Prowl’s door-wings dropped a notch as he frowned at his wrist screen. “I thought you were scheduled for nightshift monitor duty?”

“I was.”

“Then how is it possible that—”

“I am preparing a list of mechs who could have accessed my security panel _while I was using it_ as I have been here _the entire night_.”  

“Prime’s missing,” Ironhide said when Jazz glanced inquisitively at him. Already organizing a search and recover party, Ironhide was grumbling into his own wrist communicator and looked distracted. He was sharing an identical surly frown with Prowl as they passed Jazz in the corridor.

“—it’s a short list.”

“Sure is,” Jazz said.

He kept walking, whistling his merry tune, cool as a cucumber even as Prowl stopped dead in his tracks.

One step, two steps…

Prowl swiveled on his boxy hip — oh how Jazz loved it when he did that — and cast the other black and white an inquiring look. It was leveled from over his shoulder, optic brow lifting, handsome face backset by the curve of a graceful door-wing.

“Jazz.”

Jazz transformed and bolted.

“I outta deck you in the schnoz,” Ironhide shouted as a police cruiser with wailing sirens tore right after the fleeing Porsche.

 

*******

 

“Well?” Ratchet demanded.

“Can’t find him,” Sideswipe said, looking concerned. He took a long drag from his steaming mug, and added, “Sunny and I checked everywhere.”

“Everywhere.” Sunstreaker echoed his brother, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Everywhere,” Ratchet repeated, his servos dropping to his hips. His skepticism was clear from his tone, and for good reason. The twins hadn’t moved one iota from the hallway adjacent to the medbay, which was where he’d first unleashed them.

Ratchet couldn’t be certain, but he was starting to suspect the hounds were in on it.

The both of them.

Call it a hunch.

“Still looking though,” Sideswipe assured The Hatchet. He was lying through his denta as only the truly shameless could, rounding out his performance with a perfect shrug of his shoulders. “What about the others? Have you checked with Red Alert or Prowl or ‘Bee?”

“You should check with Bumblebee,” Sunstreaker suggested, his tone firm.

Meanwhile, one of the survivors shuffled their direction. He’d been cleared to rest in the barracks by First Aid, and was one of the first to be released. Suffering the aftereffects of energy starvation, the poor mech couldn’t help but eye Sideswipe’s mug as he limped past, even though Medbay would have made sure he’d been fueled before releasing him.

All of the survivors had fuel issues due to prolonged captivity, and Sunstreaker noticed the way the mech kept licking his lips. Sunny snagged ‘Sides mug, acting as if to take a sip, and then handed the steaming drink over to the survivor instead.

“Thanks,” the mech murmured, gulping eager mouthfuls of the sweet drink while continuing towards the barracks.

Sunstreaker pretended he didn’t hear.

“As a matter of fact, I _did_ check with Bumblebee,” Ratchet said. “He refuses to tell me where he and the other mini-bots have holed up with Prime.” His optics narrowed dangerously. Beyond a seriously serious lecture from Prowl, Bumblebee’s team of mini-bots were wandering into full recalibration and transmission flush territory.

The Hatchet would not be merciful.

“That’s terrible,” Sideswipe said, shaking his helm. He subspaced a can of ener-jolt without missing a beat and popped the lid. The drink sloshed a few drops onto his thumb, and he carefully licked them off.

“Just terrible,” Sunstreaker said. His face was a mask of stern disapproving disapproval. So much dissatisfaction for the hooligans around them. Clearly mechs had no respect for the hard work and impeccable paint jobs of the medical profession anymore.

Disappointing.

Ratchet stared at the twins, but before he could level any accusations, police sirens shattered the quiet a few corridors away; Prowl had flushed a suspect. The delinquent’s tires squealed as he took a corner way too fast — necessary due to the determined police cruiser riding his aft — and the sounds of pursuit grew dimmer as the chase continued down the opposite way.

Then Inferno came roaring around the corner in vehicle mode, adding his alarm bells to the growing circus.

“Jazz knows where Prime is holed up!” he shouted as he raced past. There was a small chance that he was trying to butter Ratchet up for his missed appointment, in the hopes of mercy.

Fat chance, buddy.

“You tell Jazz that’s a full axle re-alignment!” Ratchet shouted after Inferno — and he was only half kidding ‘cause he was way too busy for something so intricate as that — and then transformed and peeled off.

“Which axle?” Sideswipe called after Ratchet, looking a little nervous.

“ **All of them!** ” Ratchet roared back and then his sirens sounded and his lights began flashing as he disappeared around the corner. They could hear Jazz’s progress in the blaring of horns and sirens shrieking after him.

Sideswipe listened for a few moments. Once everyone was suitably distant, he nodded and Sunstreaker stepped away from the closet door he’d been hiding from view. Out of sight, out of mind was a thing, after all.

Sideswipe opened the door a crack, then pulled out the rest of the ener-jolt cans and handed them over to Windcharger. “He’s still asleep after all that?”

“Still out cold,” Windcharger confirmed. “All the noise didn’t even phase him.”

“Good for him,” Sideswipe said, “He needs it.”

“He looks like slag,” and Sunstreaker sniffed, his optics growing distant. He was already mentally putting together a welcome home gift basket with his best microfiber towels and some decent waxes.

“He’s snoring, he never snores,” Windcharger whispered. “That’s how tired he is. It’s crazy.”

Too much talking, too loud, and Cliffjumper, Bumblebee, Gears, and Huffer shushed them, a veritable mountain of shushes, and Prime snorted and mumbled and snuggled all his ‘Bees and sighed his comfort.

“Enjoy the boss-bot while you got him,” Sideswipe said. “Jazz is distracting everyone for as long as he can, but this is _Prowl_ we’re talking about. He’d going to wipe the floor with Jazz.”

“Pfft,” Windcharger said. “Jazz won’t crack.”

“Jazz is a pro,” Sunstreaker agreed.

 

*******

 

“I didn’t do _nothing_!”

Jazz was wearing his trademarked smooth grin, as if he _wasn’t_ trussed up to the nines and dangling upside-down from the ceiling, unabashedly staring down an impressive pitchfork mob comprised of bleary-eyed, sleepy Autobots, roused from their bunks by the noise.

Inferno, Ratchet, and Prowl were standing at the forefront of the crowd, all stern-faced and unamused.

“Prime left the medbay with ‘Bee,” somebody mumbled to somebody else, and it _was_ a serious infarction of the rules, worthy of some fairly decent angry mobbery. But somebody forgot to bring the petrol for the torches, and so everyone just sighed and shuffled back to their berths.

It was _way_ too early in the morning for shenanigans.

“This is an outrage!”

“Jazz.”

“Police discrimination against smooth jivin’ Porsches!”

_“Jazz.”_

“I’m innocent! This is vehicular profiling! I haven’t done anything that I would ever admit to on camera!”

**“Jazz.”**

“I’ll alert the media! Someone call Conan O’Brien — and ask him how the bear is doing!”

“I’m going to prep the medbay,” Ratchet announced loudly, unimpressed with the theatrics. He turned on his heel with a look of finality. “Going to have First Aid pull out all the tarps. Muffnoscopies are so damned _messy_ , after all.”

“Now, really Ratch,” Jazz called after his retreating back plates, “Inferno wasn’t _that_ late—”

“Hey!” Inferno yelped, “Don’t give him ideas _!”_

“It’s for you,” and Ratchet’s irritable grumbles continued down the corridor. He wasn’t kidding; Jazz was crossing a line. Nobody kept Ratchet from his patients. Worried, Inferno charged after Ratchet, mumbling apologies about missing appointments peppered with lies about sleeping in late.

That left Prowl alone with Jazz.

Jazz grinned down at Prowl. “I ain’t telling you nothing, copper!”

“Try again,” and Prowl cupped his helm and kissed him, a long and lingering caress, until Jazz wriggled free with a gasp.

“That’s badgering the suspect—”

Smooth black fingers teased at sensitive audial nubs. “Let’s start again, from the beginning ... where were you at 17:00 hours?”

“Primus have mercy—”

 

*******

Jazz did finally crack.

But by that point, Ratchet had already found his missing patient.

Optimus Prime wasn’t normally a snorer; it was just that he was so tired and his vents were so wrecked as to rattle every time he vented. Thanks to his heavy-duty engine and extensive ventilation system, his contribution was impressive.

That, and the mini-bots were all asleep with Prime, completely worn out from the excitement of the night, and several of them _were_ snorers. It all amounted to a fantastic chorus of clicks, whistles, rattles, and comfortable diesel engine sighs, and it was that cacophony that finally led Ratchet to his Prime.

“You got him to relax,” Ratchet said, surprised.

It wasn’t going to save Bumblebee from the consequences, but still, Optimus was sprawled out, dead asleep and most importantly, his inner trembling had greatly eased. It should have taken far longer for his systems to settle like this, and Ratchet was impressed.

“Sorry, Ratchet,” Bumblebee called from his position snuggled under Optimus’ chin. His optics were wide and he seemed contrite.

But he wasn’t, not really.

None of them were.

 

... and beneath his mini-bot blanket, Optimus slept on.

 

 


	3. (Combaticons-IDW) You Have Been Deceived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a headcannon from Fierceawakening. :)
> 
> No warnings, this one is clean.

The Decepticon fleet sliced through the darkness of open space, leaving the still-cooling battlefield known as Clemency behind them.

It had been one hell of a fight, but the Decepticons had won, driving the Autobots from the sector. In doing so, they now possessed this area of space and its worlds, at least for now. It was a great blow in a war seeming without end and this victory was only the beginning.

Megatron had _plans_.

Though the main battle fleet was leaving the sector, the contingent left behind was already busy cleaning up the mess. The withdrawing battle ships passed scores of smaller supply ships bringing work crews for the construction of something truly extraordinary. There were whispers of a massive project coming to fruition; a Nightmare Engine that would be the end of the Autobots for good.

The _Nemesis_ had taken the lead --- Megatron’s flagship claiming its place of honor. Around the flag ship, smaller vessels took their assigned positions and kept pace as the battle fleet left Clemency far behind.

On board the _Unforgiving Blade_ , spirits were high.

“Where are the others?” Blast Off asked.

He was all but shouting to be heard over the cheerful ruckus in the ship’s fueling bay. Meant to house a full barracks at any one time, the bay was a large space with reinforced floors and walls. It was currently filled to capacity and then some; overflowing with hastily assembled tables entertaining cheerful drinks and even more cheerful soldiers.

Decepticons of all ranks, sizes, and types were mingling happily. The riot of sloshing drinks, embellished stories, and the bright blue of fresh repair-welds was a welcome change from the pre-battle tension.

“Vortex was released from Medbay a few breems ago,” Onslaught answered. “I sent Swindle to escort him to our quarters to rest and to stay with him to make sure he follows orders.”

There was the faintest hint of relief in Onslaught’s voice, as Vortex had been touch and go for a while. He’d taken an unlucky blast and his chest plate had been blown right off his frame. The second volley melted half his internals. If his opponent had been a better shot, they would have lost him.

Onslaught shifted his weight as he kept an optic on the revelry --- and one table in particular --- and continued, “Brawl owed somebot a favor. He took the mech’s monitoring shift for the evening.”

Blast Off smiled behind his face mask while glancing over the massive crowd. Brawl must have owed whomever a huge favor to take a frelling duty shift, as this was definitely Brawl’s sort of party. Too bad he was missing it.

Blast Off was the exact opposite. His pleasures were more subtle and sophisticated, at least in his own estimation. This crowd was a bit too noisy and rowdy for his tastes. He dialed down his audials as some battered ‘Con raised a toast, shouting “All hail Megatron!”

“The hero of Cybertron!”

“Our great Leader!”

Another table joined in, ramping up the noise. They stomped the floor with their pedes, chanting “Megatron! Megatron!”  while the other ‘Cons roared approval and smashed their drinks together.

Blast Off nodded. Then his optics flashed when he realized that both he and Onslaught were free for the evening.

For his part, Onslaught was too distracted monitoring the noisy party to notice how Blast Off’s helm tilted back. Onslaught was standing tall, arms crossed over his chest and frowning; a constant reminder to the partying 'Cons to mind their manners. It was an important task for more reasons then one and so Onslaught didn't notice the hopeful way Blast Off's optics widened or his pensive fidgeting.

Blast Off took a deep breath. “Since it looks like everyone else is busy, maybe you’d like to join me somewhere quiet for a drink?”

“Can’t,” Onslaught said while eyeing a group in the corner that kept exploding into noisy jeers. “I’m on babysitting duty.” He pointed, and Blast Off turned and followed his gesture.

At the centermost of the party, a little group of disarmed Autobot captives were huddled around a table. From the look of them, they weren’t enjoying the party, not in the slightest. All were shell-shocked survivors and a few of them were even weeping.

MTOs, Blast Off realized, and felt a surge of pity.

Made-To-Order soldiers, they had been brought online and dumped into the fray, and were barely a cycle old. In the heat of battle, the Decepticons couldn’t and wouldn’t spare them one iota. Everyone wearing an Autobot badge was a legitimate target and the vast majority of newbuilds were killed in the fighting. These few had no idea how lucky they were to still be breathing.

“Some silver-tongued ‘Con talked them into surrendering,” Onslaught explained for Blast Off’s questioning gaze. “Don’t ask me how.”

It _was_ rather unusual.

Most of the time the MTOs would keep fighting, right to the end. This had more to do with the Autobot’s instantaneously applied ‘welcome to life’ programing package then any real bravery. It was filled to the brim with horrifying propaganda, of which only a fraction was true. Yes, Overlord and the other Phase Sixers had impressive kill counts. Yes, the Decepticons employed weapons of mass destruction and other seriously unpleasant things. Yes, there were prison colonies where _bad things happened_.

Now let’s talk about the Wreckers, Gideon’s Glue, and the various Autobot-sponsored prisons, which were often no better. This was war, and no one had clean servos. But that wasn’t what this little group of MTOs understood. Their Autobot information packs, uploaded directly into their processors, were explicitly clear; death was preferable to surrender.

Autobots who surrender were tortured to death, full stop.

This group had been brought online in the heat of battle and were part of the last drop. Their deployment had been doomed from the start and they’d been surrounded and pinned down. Then the call went out; Optimus Prime had sounded a retreat. The bulk of the Autobot forces had fled while taking heavy fire; forced to leave the little group of force-conscripted soldiers behind.

What hell, to spend one’s first –-- and usually only --– moments of life in a nightmarish firefight surrounded by the mangled corpses of your kind while complete strangers tried to murder you for reasons your circuits were too new to really process.

It was wretched _slag_ , grossly unfair, and both factions knew it.

And so as soon as the fighting had eased off, cooler helms among the Decepticons prevailed. The blaster fire had petered out, and then ceased entirely. And when the Decepticons overran the entrenched, panicking newbuilds, non-lethal tactics had been employed to subdue them.

Now the little group was huddled amidst the victorious ‘Cons. They were all patched up and seated at their own table. They were unbound and there was a pitcher of energon and glasses, but no one had touched them as of yet.

“What do you want to bet they think it’s poisoned?” Blast Off muttered, though he was pleased to note that the other Decepticons were keeping their distance from the newbies. Onslaught's dour presence surely helped, but his pointed stares mattered less then one might think. For more than half of the mechs here had been built in similar situations, and understood what these new Autobots were going through.

Onslaught nodded. “Megatron contacted me, told me to keep an eye on them. He’s coming over to talk with them in a few joors.”

For the truth was, the aftermath of a battle --– win or lose --– was often just as important as the battle itself. There were few opportunities to add to the Decepticons anymore, and this was one of the precious few chances to increase their ranks. As such, the newbuild’s place at a central table was intentional. So was the care everyone was taking to keep the rowdiness outside of the newbuild’s personal space. The hope was that seeing their own kind in their natural element, playing, laughing, rough-housing, drinking…

...it would make the Decepticons seem more machine then monster.

It didn’t take much to convert the newbuilds. A little bit of compassion went a long way. As soon as the ‘Cons proved to them that Decepticons weren’t evil incarnate –-- and that their programed Autobot knowledge pack was filled with damned dirty lies --– no small numbers of them would defect.

Blast Off was happy to see the newbies getting a chance at some sort of normal life, but he was also very distracted. Having Onslaught all to himself was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

“I was,” and here Blast Off paused as the far table was getting seriously out of hand, “was wondering if, maybe, after you are done here you might want to have a drink?”

“4:00,” Onslaught replied, cutting him off.

Blast Off’s optics flew open in delight. “Awesome, where do you want to-”

“4:00,” Onslaught repeated, pointing over Blast Off and towards the table of frightened newbuilds, positioned exactly 4:00 to them, as described. “You want to school the new recruit on proper protocol for me?”

Blast Off nodded, disappointed in more ways than one. But he obediently turned to deal with the situation. He saw the problem instantly. One of the mechs from the jeering table had stood up and was making his way towards the newbuilds. He was a new recruit, a rare turncoat from the Autobot ranks. He was holding a welder in his hand, cocked like a weapon. The tip was white-hot. There was a sadistic gleam in his optics.

Thankfully none of the newbuilds saw his approach.

Blast Off reached him first.

“Hey,” Blast Off smiled down at the other Decepticon. “Sideways, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Sideways said. The gleeful look in his optics faded, replaced by concern as he eyed the massive servo that was clamped painfully on his arm. Specifically, the one holding the burning implement.

“Um, problem?”

“What’s with the welder?” Blast Off asked, though he already knew. What he didn’t know was why this frelling sack of scrap thought he was going to get away with something like this?

“The Autobot prisoners were starting to look comfortable,” Sideways said, regaining some confidence. That nasty look was back. “I was going to put the fear of the Decepticons back into them.”

“I don’t think so,” Blast Off said. His lips became a thin line behind his blast mask. “That’s _disgusting_.”

Meanwhile the room had gone quiet. When a shocked Sideways looked around for support, he was surprised to find none at all. The rest of the soldiery eyed the glowing implement in his servo with suspicion, and the ones who weren’t three bolts to the wind were following the exchange with distaste.

Oblivious, one of the newbuilds reached shyly for the pitcher of energon.

“But,” Sideways said, his optics darting back towards the slowly calming newbies, “this is what Decepticons _do_.”

Blast Off’s expression was equal measures anger and scorn. “Congratulations. You bought into Autobot propaganda about us, you stupid aft.”

“But–”

“ _You have been deceived_.”


	4. (Megatron/Optimus - G1) Lost and Gone Forever...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...dreadful sorry, Megatron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad story, otherwise no warnings needed.

 

 **Some untoward happening in the primordial dimensions** , and as Unicron spoke the entirety of the astral plane writhed for the vile sound of his voice.

Primus tightened his death-grip on his eternal nemesis. **I too, feel a disturbance. Yet it is meaningless; I remain resolute and will not yield.** His voice, in contrast, was the sweetest music but there were notes of steel within.

The spirit of Unicron shifted in unrest, even irritation, though Primus refused to react beyond bracing himself for any aggression. For upon their grappling forms --– the dueling powers of light and dark --– all of existence rested.

Unicron held no value in the life swirling in the lower planes, but to Primus, they were all precious and worth fighting for, especially his children. He remained stalwart in their defense, even though committing himself in this way meant he could never truly enjoy them.

 **Brother** , Unicron said, **Let us retire to our true forms, conduct our business, and return immediately to our struggle.**

 **Impossible** , Primus replied, for he knew that the damage Unicron could cause in even a short moment of freedom could be catastrophic.

 **I know of your disturbance,** Unicron wheedled, **for my blood is the cause. Understand that it is not I who poison your corporeal body; your own children taint your very life-well.**

Primus was displeased to learn of the source of his discomfort, yet refused to refocus on himself for fear Unicron would take advantage. But this new information begged the question. **Why do you reveal this, when it is you who stand to profit?**

 **An instant's reprieve only,** Unicron insisted, as whatever was bothering him seemed to grow ever more irritating. **I will return to grapple with you, with little harm done, upon my word.**

Primus, too, was growing intensely uncomfortable, yet was unwilling to extend such trust, and so the Dark God spoke the Binding Word, that which cannot be broken, and both disengaged.

Then Unicron tore himself into a thousand, thousand pieces and exploded across existence, appearing in space-time as a death-world, and tended to his urgent business to his own relief.

And for the agreed upon instant across all of his focal points, Primus opened his eyes.

Primus beheld all that his children had wrought.

It was not good.

 

***

 

“You shouldn’t go out there!”

Ironhide grabbed for Optimus Prime’s shoulder. “It’s getting dark!” His red armor was a-gleam, catching the last rays of sunlight.

“You said you shot him,” Optimus replied, “And that he managed to escape. Even if he isn’t who I suspect him to be, he is injured and will be vulnerable. And so I am going.”

“A cyber-wolf attacked one of our processing stations,” Ironhide said, sounding defensive. “I only shot him because he was trying to steal from us. I wasn’t trying to be vindictive!”

“He was likely drawn to the scent of sustenance,” Optimus said firmly, and there was just the faintest hint of reproach in his voice. He didn't approve of harming animals. Yet he also understood his old friend's point of view. Cyber-wolves were simple beasts, but they did have teeth. They could be dangerous if they took a mech by surprise.

Optimus' voice grew gentler. “I am not judging you, Ironhide. I know you were protecting the workers. But now that everyone is safe, I _am_ going after him.”

“I don’t know for sure it was him,” Ironhide called after Optimus. He crossed his arms with clenched fists. “It was a silver cyber-wolf with red markings, but there’s millions of ‘em now. I was just bragging, that’s all.”

It was a reasonable argument, but Ironhide had sounded sure of himself when he bragged about shooting Megatron earlier that evening, though now he regretted doing so within audial range of the Prime. Especially when Optimus Prime pressed past him without another word. His expression was kindly yet firm, and yes, he _was_ going out there.

Ironhide winced as Optimus continued towards New Iacon’s outermost gate. Behind them, the city’s evening lights were winking on, giving the skyline a festive glow. The sound of music drifted on the night winds as a nearby work crew turned up the volume. They were working late as much of the city was still under construction.

All of Iacon’s original buildings had vanished when Cybertron had reformatted itself, along with every single living thing on Cybertron. It was likely a defensive response against the dark energon that Bludgeon and his splinter group had been trying to infect the Core with. Megatron had just driven the last of the Autobots away and reclaimed Cybertron for the Decepticons when Bludgeon made his move. He’d begun poisoning Cybertron with dark energon –-- some plot that made sense only to him –-- to the detriment of everyone on the surface.

As a result, the planet had proverbially _smashed the reset button._ Absolutely every living thing on the surface had been instantaneously absorbed and then spat back out as primitive plant and animal forms, with the dark energon vomited out into space.

The Autobots arrived home a few months after, to lay claim to a pristine world filled with cyber-forests and teeming with simple wildlife. There had been no sign of the Decepticons, but a tiny fraction of beasts had unusual coloring, suggesting a previous life now lost and gone forever. After realizing what had happened, the Autobots were content to leave their old enemies to their simple existences as beasts.

“He’s an animal now, Optimus,” Ironhide insisted, falling in step with his oldest friend and pulling on him again.

“Ironhide,” Optimus Prime said, and this time his voice was steel, and Ironhide released his grip.

“Then I’m coming with you,” Ironhide said, and started after him. “It’s my fault anyhow. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you. It's too dangerous out there.”

But Optimus just looked over his shoulder and waved him back. “You are being ridiculous, old friend. I am heavily armored and armed, and neither you nor I fear simple tech-animals, which is all that is out here now. The planetary reformat was complete, down to the very core, there isn't so much as a single piece of discarded ordinance or serious hostile in any direction. And in any case, you are scheduled for guard duty in a few breems.”

“But Prime–!”

“Ironhide!”

……“Well, then I’m coming by after my shift to check on you.”

“Of course. I’ll leave the door unlocked for you," Optimus said with a smile, then added, "though remember to mind the dog.”

 

***

 

Optimus Prime rolled in truck mode through the dusty badlands.

Silvery dust trails billowed in his wake, and his headlights were aimed downward. Ironhide was always a good shot, and the cyber-wolf had left a decent blood trail, which made tracking him down easy.

It wasn't long before the trail ended. Optimus hit his brakes and transformed, kneeling before a little gully with a natural indentation. The blood trail had led him here, and the lonely little spot was where he found the silver cyber-wolf with the red markings … all that was left of his old enemy.

“Megatron,” Optimus Prime called into the crevice.

Harsh red optics were glowing from inside the crude cave, and Optimus frowned when those eyes were backed up by the gleam of razor-sharp teeth. It then occurred to him that going in after the cornered, injured cyber-wolf was probably not the smartest plan he'd ever come up with.

Oh, well.

“Do you remember anything from your past? Do you remember me?” Optimus called softly, though he already suspected the answer. It was obvious from the way Megatron was reacting to him; like the wounded animal that he was.

Optimus’ spark sank when Megatron merely growled, low and menacing. It was a clear warning. And as he continued to approach, the metal fur along Megatron’s back and flanks lifted until they were standing on end. The fear in those gleaming optics made his spark ache and Optimus’ expression saddened.

“I cannot undo what has been done to you," Optimus said as he pulled an item out of his subspace to help. "But I wish to help you in whatever way that I can. Please, let me comfort you.”

Megatron shrank away, every instinct inside urging him to flee. Some part of him may have recognized that voice, but the animal instincts that ruled his frame knew only fear. Fight or flight was his options now, and fighting was the last resort. He'd taken a shot point blank to the chest, and though it wasn't lethal, he was in pain and wasn't up for a fight. He licked his bloody muzzle with a bright silver tongue as he tried to follow his instincts and flee. But then his arched back met the far wall and his ears flattened against his head as he realized he was trapped.

“Easy now,” Optimus rumbled, inching forward. Sentient or not, there was no way Optimus was leaving Megatron out here, wounded and bleeding. It wasn’t Megatron’s fault he’d been drawn to the scent of food.

But the sight of Optimus’ steady approach seemed to set Megatron off. His growls escalated into snarls, and he lunged and snapped threateningly, though he was limping badly. His optics were dimmer then they should be and he seemed to be losing strength the longer the encounter lasted.

Undaunted, Optimus continued to move closer, working out the best way to capture his old enemy. His left hand was outstretched, but in his right hand was a muzzle. It was a simple thing, just a few loops of soft, malleable metal, but by the sound of things, it was a damned good thing he’d thought to bring it.

Megatron wasn’t going down without a fight.

Well, neither was he.

Then, with a last murmured apology, Optimus Prime pounced.

 

***

 

It was late in the night and Megatron the cyber-wolf was _not_ happy with his new home.

There were plenty of signs, though the largest were the steady growls, along with the way he kept rubbing at his muzzled face with his two massive front paws, and especially the pungent puddle of waste fluid that Optimus was currently wiping up.

Bandaged, medicated, bedded down, and keenly upset for it, Megatron was growling along to the voices talking near him. His timbre matched his dreadful mood and he showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.

“You can’t seriously be considering keeping him here,” Ironhide said, looking around at the roomy and very tidy flat Optimus had claimed for a permanent residence. He chewed his lip as his fingers clenched around his cooling mug of energon.

Optimus dropped the empty bandage wrappers and soiled rags into the waste can with a sigh. “Actually, I am.”

“I know a mech who’s good with dogs.”

“Ironhide.”

“When Ratchet hears about this—”

“Ironhide.”

“He’s gonna bust a gasket.”

Optimus sighed again, but refused to consider Ironhide’s offer. Instead, he reached out a hand towards Megatron again. He wanted to provide reassurance, but withdrew immediately when Megatron’s growls became murderous snarls, that ebbed back into growls when Optimus backed off.

Optimus pinched the bridge of his nasal sensor, and then it was Ironhide’s turn to sigh. They both fell silent and for a good long breem, and the only sound was Megatron’s barely audible whining and _very_ audible growling, which never ceased.

“I think you’re crazy to keep ‘em,” Ironhide said at last, “but, well, I know you and your soft spark and so I won’t even bother to talk you out of it.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Do you think he remembers you? Or anything, for that matter?”

Optimus hesitated before answering. “I think his spark remembers he was … _something else_ before the reformatting. He keeps turning in circles and biting at himself. He seems … confused and frustrated.”

Ironhide shook his helm. “Eh. Looks like he wants the muzzle off.” He watched skeptically as Megatron continued to paw at his face and couldn’t see anything that suggested the cyber-wolf was anything more than a beast.  

“Yes, that’s true. But look at his flanks and sides. There are older marks there, where he’s bitten himself, and that’s not in response to his injuries.”

“Mm,” Ironhide grumbled, unconvinced. He wasn’t happy with his old friend’s decision, but was unable to do anything about it. “Well, I am going to head out and hit the sack. You leave that muzzle on him and call me if you need any help. Oh, and bolt the door, ‘cause hurricane Ratchet is heading your way as soon as he reads my message. You got ‘til morning.”

Optimus winced. “Ironhide—”

“Ratch woulda killed me if I didn’t let him know what you were up to,” Ironhide defended himself, and added, “and you know he’s trained me well.” The last few words came out with a laugh, and then he got to his pedes and Optimus walked him to the door.

And Megatron was _still_ growling.

 

***

 

Hurricane Ratchet landed the next morning.

Optimus Prime weathered the storm, and graciously hosted the surly old medic every morning thereafter. Well, he was mostly gracious. He _did_ start rolling his optics when Ratchet insisted on greeting him every morning by acting surprised he was still alive.

Three days later, and Megatron’s fur had finally settled down, though he still hadn’t stopped growling. The muzzle was looser now, allowing for feeding, which Megatron did seem to appreciate. But when not wolfing down fuel, his confused circling and frustrated biting at himself continued, along with defensive crouching and bared fangs whenever Optimus approached.

Optimus knew better then to remove the soft muzzle.

At least, not yet.

The turning point came the fourth night, while Optimus was resting on his recharge slab. He was listening quietly to Megatron’s incessant circling. There had been some progress towards peace between them, though he suspected that part of the problem was the melding of Megatron’s sentient spark to the solitary cyber-wolf’s processor.

Megatron the Cybertronian had been gregarious and desired companionship and company, while Megatron the cyber-wolf was a lone hunter, stalking in welcome solitude all his life.

The two parts of him could not easily co-exist and though the muzzle kept Megatron from committing self-harm in his frustration, he still had freedom of movement, and so he settled on pacing to distract himself from the anxiety of his warring mind. His huge paws _tap-tap-tapped_ over the metal floor in the next room over, and the restless cyber-wolf wouldn’t or couldn’t settle down.

Finally there was a snuffling noise, and then a scratching sound. Megatron worried the door open, and Optimus listened as huge paws padded toward him in the darkness. He left his optics closed as what was left of Megatron sniffed his face. He held perfectly still, not wanting to give the cyber-wolf any reason to withdraw. He’d spent the last few days doing everything he could think of to gain his old enemy’s trust and at last it seemed his efforts were paying off.

Optimus kept very still and held his breath as Megatron sniffed him again.

Megatron was hesitant, but growing bolder by the moment.

Then Megatron placed two paws on the recharge slab and heaved himself up, all four legs balancing around Optimus’ still-as-stone form. He stood there for a moment and nervously sniffed the prone form. The animal he was warned him away, but the spark inside remembered Optimus; remembered his frame, his deep voice, the husky smell of idling diesel engine.

Spark and mind went to war, but deep inside, Megatron _remembered._   And with a last shiver, his lonely spark won the battle. He settled down next to Optimus, his soft metal fur tickling Optimus' side.

His own spark aching, Optimus took a risk and reached out his hand, stroking along the silvery back and side. His fingers were gentle. He took care to avoid the hurt spots and he could tell the touch was helping. “Easy now,” he murmured when Megatron shivered nervously. “Rest here with me. Let me comfort you.”

There was a low sound in response, almost a whine but not quite. It was less a warning and more a whisper of confusion, an echo of loss, the same feeling that twisted Optimus’ spark.

Megatron’s soft growls never ceased, even when he inched a little closer...

... and rested his head under Optimus Prime’s face and neck.

 


	5. (Optimus - Bayformers) Sparkling Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UNIVERSE: Bayformers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Big thanks to And_The_Rest for giving me the idea! :D <3 **
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> No warnings needed, though the ending is a little sad, kind of. :P

 

It was early in the morning of the fifth day of their arrival to the Diego Garcia military base that Ratchet spotted something that _just couldn’t be_.

“There!”

“I … don’t see anything, Ratchet,” said Optimus Prime, and he offered his chief medical officer an apologetic look. It was not from lack of trying, but the human junkyard that Ratchet was pointing at seemed as empty of life as it was filled to the brim with scrap.

The entire city they were currently patrolling felt much the same. The human dwellings and trappings were all tiny and compact. Everything felt cramped to the point that the Autobots had to stifle the urge to tip toe around so as to avoid breaking things.

Which was why Ratchet was _not_ tearing apart the small junkyard, chasing after the phantom mechanical he insisted was hiding inside. Shuffling his massive pedes for impatience, he nonetheless stayed on the road as ordered, but refused to give up. Persistent as a hound, he kept scanning the junkyard with his medical scanner.

Ratchet grumbled something unintelligible and then ended with, “I know what I saw.”

“That is just not possible,” said Optimus, and he pointed at Ratchet’s hand scanner. “What do your instruments show?”

“Ironhide, you see him, right?” demanded Ratchet, ignoring the question while gesturing for Ironhide to back him up. “He is very small, but I know what I am seeing. Just follow my line of sight. He’s _there_ , under the, the, whatever that thing is!”

Ironhide just shrugged.

“There are a lot of _things_ over there,” said Optimus. Ever the diplomat, he took care to use the mildest tones possible. He was ready to leave, but held on to his patience with both hands. He didn’t say it aloud, but he was certain there was nothing to see.

Ironhide agreed, though with far less decorum, and Ratchet matched him insult for insult. At first glance, it seemed that Ironhide and Ratchet were always at each other’s throats, but anyone who knew them could hear the deep affection beneath their blustering.

“Let’s go, Ratchet,” said Ironhide, his voice serious now. “We need to head back. Captain Lennox will be arriving in a few hours and I want to show him my upgrades.”

“You and your stupid cannons—”

“Keep it down,” said Optimus, waving his hand reproachfully at his noisy companions. The street they were standing on was deathly quiet, and he glanced around the dark roads, but the house-lights remained dark and nothing moved within them.

Which was entirely reasonable as it was barely past ‘stupid o’clock in the morning, going on 4 am, which most humans would agree wasn’t really a time at all. Absolutely everyone who wasn’t a pitiful wage slave employed by cruel, whip-cracking overlords was still in bed, which was where they should be.

Well, except for the Autobots, who had much longer operating and recharge cycles. The earthly day and night cycles took some getting used to, along with everything else about their new home. Now that Megatron had been defeated, everyone wanted to go out and explore, though the USA military had insisted that the Autobots remain on the base while deployment protocols were being hammered out.

Three days of being cooped up had taken its toll, and now Optimus Prime wasn’t willing to rest in idle. Especially since he wasn’t invited to the deliberations, something of a sore point with him. Thus, when the military base had quieted down for the night cycle, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, and Ratchet had left the military base and headed towards the gleaming orange-ish lights of the nearby human city a few miles out.

Optimus had justified it as “giving back to the humans that have offered us sanctuary” when in reality, it was an excuse to get the hell away from the military base’s cramped quarters and criminally low ceilings (his poor audial dents had dents).

They had patrolled for a handful of hours, and the time had passed far too quickly. The night wind was warm and welcoming, and the little town was peaceful, but now the edge of the skyline was edged with pink, suggesting that the sun was soon to make an appearance. They needed to return to base...

...but Ratchet simply refused to leave. “There, there he is again! He just ducked back under the blue thing!”

Exchanging weary glances, Optimus and Ironhide nevertheless tried again. Both squinted obediently, but again, there was nothing. “Follow me,” commanded Optimus and his voice booked no further arguments. He stepped back onto the road and prepared to transform.

Ratchet knew what that meant, but looked taken back. “We can’t just leave! This is ridiculous! How are you two not seeing him?”

Ironhide couldn’t resist. “Perhaps _you_ are the one seeing things. You should get your optics checked, old medic. Shall I call our chief medical officer and put you down for an appointment?”

“Right after I weld your cannons to your aft, you creaky old rust bucket—”

“Daydreaming about my aft again, are you? You know where I recharge, right? Or do you need a map?”

“Ironhide!”

Optimus dropped both hands on his hips and his expression grew very firm. Normally neither one of his dearest friends and soldiers would push him to this point, and he was finally starting to lose his patience.

Ratchet had lost his breems ago. “Look harder, the both of you! If you don’t see him this time, I am scheduling you both for optical recalibrations!”

“I still don’t see what you are pointing at,” said Optimus. There was just a hint of frustration coloring his normal tones as he added, “Nor do I appreciate the threat.”

“Medical procedures are _never_ a threat,” replied Ratchet, and his optics narrowed playfully. “They are a promise.”

Optimus Prime revved his engine and dropped the hammer. “Enough! The sun will be rising soon and the humans will be emerging for the day. The next one of you to defy an order will be riding back to base in my trailer—”

“ **There**!” and Ratchet’s shout nearly woke the neighborhood as he pointed dramatically, startling both Ironhide and Optimus.

But Ratchet didn’t actually have to point this time. The little mechanical he’d spotted was clear as day, now that he had scooted out from cover and directly into view. And sure enough, he had a round little head atop an even rounder bottom … the classic sparkling frame-type.

“What in the name of the Allspark?” said Optimus Prime, and took a step forward. He looked nothing short of stunned.

Ironhide laughed. “Looks like the cranky old medic was right!”

 _Whack_!

 “Of course I was right!”

“—ouch.”

Optimus tromped forward until the shaking of his massive pedes bounced the little one, and sent him falling back towards the garbage. Optimus froze and then remembered himself, realizing how huge and intimidating he must look.

At the same time, Ratchet and Ironhide saw the little one tumble downwards. They started to hurry towards the spot, which only made the ground shudder even harder.

Concerned, Optimus held a hand out to warn Ratchet and Ironhide to stay still. Then he touched his chest and changed the gear of his engine, which began to rumble in a soothing way. It was a soft purr that a sparkling would find comforting, and with his voice purring to match, Optimus began to walk towards the little one.

But Optimus soon stopped again when his gentle greeting went unanswered. He watched in dismay as the tiny sparkling turned in a full circle and then headed back towards the mountainous piles of human garbage. He lost sight of the little one, who rolled back under his garbage sanctuary. All was silence for a moment, and the shock of the moment registered and the Autobots all began speaking at once.

“—can’t believe—”

“—doesn’t make any sense—”

“—have to rescue him!”

 

…and thus, the great rescue of 2013 began.

 

***

 

“There he is again! On the left side!”

“Get around him, Ironhide!” commanded Optimus Prime.

Then Optimus stepped over the trash heap, intending to cut the little one off. The rest of the Autobots hurried to obey, Ratchet to the right, and Ironhide to the left. They each took positions around the edges of the tiny human junkyard, while a few meters away, a frantic old man yelled at them in Spanish.

“¡Mis disculpas!” said Optimus Prime, “Estamos tratando de rescatar a uno de nuestro tipo, comparable a uno de sus bebés. Aprecio tu paciencia.”

“Oh bien entonces,” said the shocked man.

Ratchet was grousing as he tried to peer under the pile of refuse the smaller mechanical had scurried under. “He’s so _small_ , Optimus! I can’t understand how he arrived here.”

“If he’s a cassette, Blaster is going to lose his mind,” said Ironhide, while carefully placing his massive pedes on either side of the mess the sparkling had disappeared under. He flexed his fingers and prepared to start digging.

“We will worry about that later, old friend,” said Optimus as he pointed at Ironhide and then directed him towards the largest piece of scrap. The two of them worked together to carefully lift the large piece away.

For a split second, they could see the sparkling clearly. The little one seemed disoriented and wasn’t reacting properly to them, nor to their soft engine noise, which should have attracted him to them. Not only that, but the little one was absolutely tiny, which would make caring for him a delicate matter.

It was a wonder they had spotted him at all, and Optimus, Ironhide, and Ratchet shared concerned looks. Then they lost sight of him again, and they redoubled their efforts, uncovering the seemingly fearful sparkling piece by piece. It was slow work, as they had to take the utmost care not to dislodge any of the piled trash. Any of the heavier pieces could snuff out the new little life, and so they took their time and did the job right.

It wasn’t long until a crowd of shocked humans gathered; the morning shift was going to be late for sure.

“What’s all this?!” yelled a woman out the passenger-side window of her car as she drove past (she ran the coffee kiosk down the street and couldn’t be late or the entire day’s productivity would be lost — a true modern day hero).

“They are rescuing a robot baby!” shouted another woman, whose chiwawa was having a nervous breakdown for all of the alien engine-rumbles. Lifting his leg, the concerned canine peed all over his owner’s shoes, making sure that the aliens understood _that this human_ _belonged to him_ and there would be _consequences_ for any harm committed (chiwawas think they are bigger than they actually are) though his owner didn’t notice his heartfelt and frankly awe-inspiring commitment to her personal safety.

The sun had just lifted itself into the sky when they finally pulled away the last piece, and Ratchet snagged the youngster, who seemed somehow even littler while nestled within the safety of his fingers.

“Hand him to me,” demanded Optimus Prime, as he simply must hold the youngster right this instant. He’d always been very partial to sparklings and the vast eons between now and the last time he’d held a newborn of their race had only deepened such feelings.

Ratchet knew better than to cross him, though Ratchet certainly admonished him, even while handing the tiny mech over. “Really, Optimus, I should be holding him — now watch his bottom and don’t let him roll forward! — especially since his gyros and optics aren’t fully formed yet.”

“Doesn’t that mean he’s only a few hours old?” asked Ironhide, who was feeling strangely skeptical about all of this.

“Which means he will startle easily,” said Optimus, finishing Ratchet’s last set of instructions. “I understand, Ratchet.”

The Prime knew how to hold sparklings, and was about to say as much, when he remembered himself instead. He began to modulate his engine and the heavy, soothing purr began to emanate from him once again, in the hopes of comforting the shy newborn, who still wasn’t responding properly.

“There is a crowd gathering,” warned Ironhide. “We can expect law enforcement vehicles soon.” Sure enough, the sounds of approaching sirens could be heard in the distance. It was well past time they were on their way, and Ironhide said as much. A moment later the sounds of Cybertronian transformation regaled the crowd of gawking humans, two of the transformations swift and sure, the last slow and careful.

The elderly man watched all of this without a word, until he spotted what had the Autobots so upset. “¡Eso no es un bebé! ¡Eso es un juguete de niño!” shouted the stupefied man, though his voice was lost for the squealing of tires.

“Good luck with your new baby!” shouted a young man in the crowd, and a cheer ran through the assembled humans. Then they promptly dispersed, all of them heading in a zombified mass towards the coffee kiosk in the distance.

The Autobots roared down the dirt road, leaving nothing but billowing trails of dust in their wake as they headed back to base.

 

***

“Should we tell them?”

Sergeant Epps sounded perfectly content to let fussing robots fuss. He found the Autobots so ... humanlike ... at the moment, and the scene unfolding was really rather touching, but for the sake of human-robot relations, it probably wasn’t the best plan.

“What do you _mean_ , should we tell them? Of course we tell them!” snapped Captain Lennox, though he sounded every bit as distracted as his current companion, and for excellent reasons.

In the distance, Optimus Prime, Leader of the Autobots, was carefully rocking the newest addition to the base. His engine was at a full purr and the sheer power of it was vibrating the floor. He was saying something under his breath, in the strange and unique language of their kind. There was a soft trill to the sounds though, and there was a strong possibility that Optimus Prime was _singing_.

Across the way, a very surly Ratchet was trying to figure out why the youngster was refusing to ingest energon. He was hampered by his inability to use his internal scanners, as they were too powerful and might disrupt a newborn’s internals. Not to mention they were clearly malfunctioning, as they weren’t picking up any life signs, when it was pretty damned obvious to them that the sparkling was alive.

Definitely alive, and most definitely ill.

Alas, Ratchet didn’t have the materials necessary to construct anything gentler then his wrist scanner, and so was consulting technical diagrams and old manuals. His optics whirred and flickered as he mentally thumbed through the data, picking out the pertinent details.

“Check and see if his waste hatch is moist,” called Ratchet, from where he was standing in the medical alcove of the massive carrier bay. “A chronically wet bottom is an indication of infection. That would explain why he is reluctant to fuel.”

“Hold on,” said Optimus Prime as he carefully peeled back the soft thermal blanket and checked. “He seems dry,” and Optimus carefully rewrapped the youngster. It was quite the feat considering how tiny he was.

“So small,” Optimus Prime murmured to himself. His engine-purr resumed. He began rocking back and forth, which seemed to settle the little one. It might be his imagination, but he was certain it was helping.

Back at the front of the hanger, the two humans were still arguing.  "What kind of lullabies do Cybertronian organisms sing to their newborns?" asked Epps, and he pointed over at Optimus and made a gesture for _mind blown_. It was all very fascinating and Epps was doing his upmost to bargain for a little more time.

“Absolutely not,” said Lennox, who wasn’t interested in excuses. He was still completing his debarkation paperwork and could not yet enter the bay proper, which was the only reason he hadn’t taken Optimus Prime aside already. He could tell the Autobots were going to be disappointed, and he didn’t want their new guests to feel silly or anything.

“It’s kind of cute watching them, though,” argued Epps, and he shook his head in amusement when Optimus Prime murmured something sweet to the little mechanical in his arms. Epps took a massive gulp from a coffee mug that read ‘Fire at Will (it sucks to be Will)’ and gave Lennox a pleading look. 

“Go tell Optimus,” ordered Lennox, and then he turned and headed towards the supply depot in the distance to turn in his paperwork and pick up his gear.

Sargent Epps sighed and then shook his head. He knew Lennox was right, but really didn't want to be the one to ruin the moment. Still, an order was an order, and he turned and called over to Optimus Prime. “Hey, you got a minute?”

“Not now,” said Optimus Prime, and his voice was very firm, easily twice as firm as Lennox had been. Technically he outranked Epps, who was nothing if not swift to follow orders … and so Epps just nodded agreeably.  

Then the hardened military sergeant settled down to watch as the Autobots rumbled, purred, and otherwise cooed over the BB-8 toy … which apparently strongly mimicked a newborn of the Cybertronian species.

 


	6. (Arcee/Galvatron - IDW) Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devotion - Decepticon style. Arcee/Galvatron is inspired by a head cannon from prowlantulas on Tumblr, because the idea of clueless Galvatron trying to woo an uncaring Arcee mashes all my buttons. I added in Soundwave, because, Soundwave. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of violence, unwanted touches.

 

He came in a battered wreck.

His plating was red etched with gold, a sinewy little chinese-dragon-frame, and the Decepticon sigil on his bitty chest ensured he received a warm welcome from his fellow ‘cons.

He was an unbound cassette, badly damaged, trailing an umbilicus cord to the frame he’d been hiding in. His symbiotic shell had been small too, just large enough to pass as a standard frame. It was destroyed during the previous day’s battle, and the little mech had been forced to abandon it. Now he was exposed, his tiny size and delicate plates all the confirmation anyone needed that he was originally classified by the functionalists as a data stick.

Not that it mattered.

The little dragon was ferried into the Decepticon base amidst kindly greetings, and afforded a prominent place in the medbay. Without so much as a blink, Hook donned a pair of sight-enhancing googles and set to work painstakingly repairing his extensive little wounds. For whatever the many, many sins of the Decepticons, in this way they lived up to their ideals of equality for all Cybertronians.

Everyone was equal, no matter his size or perceived function, and cassettes were no exception. He was given the same attention any other Decepticon would receive, though several curious mechs gawked as they wandered by, a far cry from how things used to be.

Cassettes used to be everywhere, absolutely everywhere. They had vastly outnumbered carriers, and way back then, were considered disposable. They were the lowliest of the casts, treated worse than even the heavy-duty construction frames. The war had decimated their numbers, for tiny frames did little to shelter delicate internals from the shockwaves from missiles.

Damage that a larger transformer would shake off tended to leave them in critical condition, often with no help from either side. Now cassettes were hard to find, all but extinct. Each one was considered precious, though ironically, that meant that they held even less control over their own fates.

“He will pull through,” Hook called to the hulking blue frame that insisted on lingering in the medbay doorway, drawn to the little figure like a moth to a flame.

Soundwave was in love.

 

***

 

She came in a battered wreck, like it wasn’t no thing.

Kicking down the door, Arcee strode in to Galvatron’s command center like she owned it. Her upper body was all but hidden by the sizeable hulk she was carrying over her shoulder, easily three times her mass.

She was colored a bright pink and held herself like a warrior. Not the pale imitation of past greatness like the wretches pretending to be what they were not, but the real thing. Her bladed weapons were sharpened with meticulous care and her skill was as undeniable as her color; a bright pink slathered in the blood of her enemies.

Arcee dumped her prisoner onto the ground, and with a parting kick, left him for the stupefied guards to deal with. She’d completed her original task to perfection, but the prisoner was a bonus, and so she’d arrived at Galvatron’s doorstep – never mind they were supposed to be on opposite sides – and waltzed right in.

She strode up to mighty Galvatron without a qualm, demanding fuel and repairs for her ship in exchange for her prisoner; a mech of interest to the Decepticons. She knew what would happen next, what sort of hell she was delivering the wretch to, and hadn’t thought twice, unhindered by any weak notions of mercy.

Arcee spoke her mind and made her demands, her hands on her swords to back them up. Her words burned with her truth and she never wreathed them in slick-tongued diplomacy, never pulled her punches.

Of course Galvatron agreed.

He’d seen her before, had stood beside her in battle during previous encounters. He’d watched her bury her heel into the internals of a shared enemy, her eyes alight and her denta bared and her words harsh. There were no soft edges to be found as she stood atop the piles of dead, her swords raised in triumphant.

Arcee was strength, Arcee was grace, Arcee was uncouth and slit throats like none other.

Galvatron was in love.

***

 

_Not very good at this._

It was a lament not often uttered by Soundwave, but today was a special day. He was trying to make conversation with the object of his most fervent desire. The little dragon-cassette rebuffed his every advance, clearly uninterested in bonding with a carrier.

Soundwave blamed himself; more specifically his distinct lack of social graces. His instability during his early years meant most mechs had shunned him, and his social skills had suffered for it.

Thankfully his standby “silent brooding” persona worked well in the framework of the Decepticons. But it was times like this, while trying to court another, that his lack of skill came back to haunt him.

All attempts at engaging the little cassette had failed and so Soundwave was left following the new arrival all through the Nemesis, much like an overprotective dog might worry over a tiny, fussy kitten, all the while doing his utmost not to seem like he was some sort of pervy stalker.

Soundwave had the sense he wasn’t succeeding, especially when the target of his adulation began to outright flee at his approach. It didn’t help that he would show up in places he’d never frequent before; dark corners and side corridors and other out-of-the-way places holding no interest to him except for the fearful cassette that tried to keep to them.

Currently they were in the mess hall, a place Soundwave normally avoided like the plague. Too many minds, too close together, it bothered his telepathy and gave him a helm-ache. There was a bright blue drink sitting in front of him, entirely ignored in favor of the little cassette that was sitting in a far corner.

Soundwave watched the little dragon-former with a keen visor, while around him, everyone else traded knowing glances. “Overprotective, much?” some ‘con muttered to another ‘con, who nodded.

For his part, the little dragon-cassette was curled nervously around his drink – fully twice his body weight – and he was fueling, lapping with a serpent’s lively tongue, his tail twitching back and forth in the manner of a nervous reptile keen to tail-whip the first fool that got too close.

Soundwave could sense his tension, and that made him even more protective, and soon he was unintentionally using his body posture to threaten everyone who dared approach the tiny dragon.

“Soundwave,” Starscream muttered as he strode by, a steaming mug of energon in his hand, “could you look any more threatening?”

Soundwave jolted, suddenly self-conscious. Starscream, having enjoyed unsettling the normally unflappable spy, just smirked back over his shoulder as he strolled out the door, his work complete.

After watching Starscream leave, Soundwave looked back at the corner table, but the little cassette was gone. He was impressed for the speed of the little dragon’s retreat, a useful trait for the spy business, and his spark skipped a beat.

 

***

 

Mighty Galvatron wasn’t any good at this.

He’d had too much on his plate when he was young, too many enemies to slaughter to bother with _dating_ , of all things. His knowledge on the topic wouldn’t fill a single blaster-capsule, but Galvatron was too proud to ask for help or conduct research. Instead, he relied on his memories, gleaned from half-remembered conversations, always overheard from others. His attempts to flirt fell flat, and it wasn’t long before every single Decepticon under his command was trying to give him the advice he wasn’t seeking.

“Have you tried asking her out on a date?” asked Nautilator, while trying to drink out of a mug with his pincers. Someone yelled a reminder to Nautilator that he was still in his alt-mode, and the lobster perked up and transformed, which caused him to spill his drink everywhere anyway.  

Galvatron scowled, crossed his arms over his chest and announced that such romantic clap-trap was beneath the dignity of great warriors. All around him, Decepticons traded glances, and shook their helms. Good luck getting any canoodling with that kind of attitude...

“Energon goodies,” Snaptrap advised his leader, while penning a reminder on Nautilator’s favorite energon mug. “Pink robots like energon goodies.” It sounded good, and all the seated ‘cons nodded amicably at each other.

Mighty Galvatron hadn’t been convinced, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Obtaining a decently-sized offering, he’d flung them at her with a firm “you may consume these” but she’d seemed skeptical.

He’d even resorted to flowers, the heads and spinal cords of a nearby floral species, and that hadn’t gone well. The object of his desires had merely glanced down at his offering, snorted, and then whacked the colorful spinal stems out of his hand.

“How am I supposed to kill people with _these_?” demanded Arcee, and to be fair, _she was absolutely right._

 

***

 

“I can open doors by myself,” insisted the little cassette, looking put out.

“Your door proficiency is in question,” replied Soundwave, all the while holding the door mechanism open and trying to disentangle the little unfortunate from his predicament.

Soundwave’s words were spoken tongue-in-cheek, though his monotone didn’t reflect it. The little cassette was hardly at fault for his situation; the door scanners weren’t designed with someone of such small stature in mind. The door had closed on his sleek frame, trapping him half in and half out of the entrance.

It was a disgusting oversight as far as Soundwave was concerned.  His bonded cassettes had never encountered this problem as they were either docked or used the ceiling vents to get around. It was an issue that would have to be remedied, and Soundwave made a mental note to look into it.

The situation had escalated when, instead of waiting for help, the dragon-former tried to wriggle through on his own and now his nifty little dorsal spines were jammed in the door mechanism. His lithe frame looped and coiled around itself like an angry serpent arguing with a mouse over who was inviting whom for dinner, and all the twisting seemed to be causing him a fair bit of discomfort.

The dragon’s growing sense of panic had galvanized Soundwave into action. He’d left the corner he’d been lurking in and had torn down the hallway, sending mechs careening into the walls as he passed, charging to the rescue.

After paging Hook his location, Soundwave had settled down next to the delicate and thrashing cassette. He curled his hand around the little frame, offering support that hadn’t been requested. He fondly patted the little dragon currently gnawing on his fingers, stroking over the sleek side with his other hand. He was careful to hold the dragon still, so he didn’t injure himself further.

It was difficult, what with all the biting and chewing and gnawing and snarling of bad words, but Soundwave managed. Surely this rescue was proof of his devotion, and the thought was encouraging. Behind his mask, he was smiling triumphantly, certain the cassette would come around eventually.

It was just a matter of time.

 

***

 

She’d retired into the guest room that night, and Galvatron had blasted out from his base the moment her door had closed.

His attempts at conversation had ended in failure, at least until he’d proclaimed his kill count greater; she’d taken umbrage and they’d settled their differences in the traditional way. It was invigorating, and he wanted more, much more, he wanted to wrestle her forever; he wanted her to grip _him_ the way she grasped her swords.

Mighty Galvatron was still bleeding when he’d uncovered the hidey-hole her enemies had retreated to, currently regrouping for their next offensive. He’d roared a merry greeting and laid waste to them, dragging what was left behind him, their frames twitching and spasming in death.

Galvatron was pleased with his haul, and left their bodies outside her door. His helm tilted as he considered, and then unsheathed his favorite sword. He transfixed the skulls, forcing the bodies into a pleasing curve, hands outstretched as if in worship.

Standing back, Galvatron admired his bloody creation, this shrine that spoke of his devotion. The blood was draining and spilling across the floor, pooling in lovely patterns. It was a sufficient gift for one so glorious as her.  

And so the mighty Galvatron strode away, a trail of blood in his wake, leaving behind his favorite sword as his calling card.

It was just a matter of time.

 

 


	7. (Megatron/Rodimus - IDW) Gone Sideways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UNIVERSE: IDW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a while ago and assumptions were made that didn’t pan out in the comics. So this is an AU now, where Team Rodimus and Megatron took back the Lost Light from the conspirators — no Terminus. The events of this little story are a few days after reclaiming the Lost Light.
> 
> Warning: awkward sticky sex

 

"You should have followed your instincts, Rodimus!”

Getaway’s jovial voice rang out over frozen ground. Puffs of breath wreathed his vents as he stood on a column overlooking a sunken pit where Rodimus and Megatron had been cast. Behind him, the alien planet’s dusky-purple sky gleamed. It was only barely brightened by the system’s distant star.

Even in defeat, Rodimus remained defiant. “You mean I should have blasted your stupid face off like I wanted to in the first place!”

But Rodimus’ bravado was largely empty. His options were limited, especially with his arms bound behind his back and Megatron unconscious at his pedes. The stun-blast they'd taken had shut down all of their internal weaponry, leaving him rather helpless. It didn’t help that he had to yell upwards to be heard, either.

The icy walls enclosing the two captives were sheer, all but insurmountable and so neither Getaway nor Atomizer seemed cowed by his threats. The planet they'd chosen for this unpleasant business was little more than a giant icicle; perfect for abandoning annoying ship captains and ex-genocidal tyrants.

Getaway’s optics gleamed. “Then why didn’t you?”

From his vantage point, Getaway towered over his defeated ex-captains, Atomizer at his back and with all the winning cards in his hand. His master plan to dethrone Rodimus and banish Megatron had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

Rodimus scowled and didn’t answer. He was already regretting the mercy he’d shown these two. Something, something, something, vengeance not the Autobot way.

Frelling Drift!

Convincing him to reclaim his original paint job! Arguing that vengeance wouldn’t ease the burning in his spark! Talking him out of doing something he might regret for the rest of his life!

Now Rodimus was standing in an icy pit, about to be abandoned to die yet again, but this time without any obvious way out. He didn’t even have Team Rodimus to rely on. Only Megatron had been kidnapped along with him, and he was currently sprawled at Rodimus’ pedes, a great big silvery lump of uselessness.

It was unfair to a ridiculous degree.

Rodimus ground his denta. His engine revved, running hot. Flames licked at his dermal plating. Only the energon-cuffs on his servos — and the sheer icy walls — kept him from taking the fight directly to the source of all his troubles. For all his threats, he hadn’t even managed to land a single punch on these two.

Even worse, Getaway was _still_ gloating!

_Gah!_

“So that makes, what, how many command failures now?” and Getaway started ticking them off, one by one, ending with the current betrayal, “and here we are again.” He spread his arms with a flourish. His optics gleaming, his smile a mile wide, it was painfully obvious he was relishing the moment.

Rodimus was less thrilled. “Why don’t you _come down here_ and say that, you bolt-sucking coward!”

“I would, but I can’t,” and Getaway lifted his hands apologetically. “I have a date with your captain’s chair.”

“Better ride it sideways so you can feel it,” sneered Rodimus. He made a _fantastically_ lewd gesture, suggestive of selenium salami thrown down vast, cavernous hallways. It wasn’t easy with his hands cuffed, but he was a mech of many talents.

Atomizer snickered. “Nice.” But he clammed up when Getaway shot him a warning look. All retorts would be coming from the master, please and thank you.

“Classy as ever—”

“—says the lying, back-stabbing, mutinous piece of slag!”

“That’s rich, coming from Megs’ bestie,” said Getaway. “Tell me again how many Autobots Megatron murdered?”

“For the last fragging time! Having Megatron on board wasn’t my idea! And at least he isn’t a thieving piece of trash!”

Getaway wagged a finger at him. “I was just getting this ship back on track when you—”

“It’s my quest and my fragging ship!” roared Rodimus, and a flashpoint of flame writhed around him. “This isn’t an Autobot mission! Who the _hell_ do you think you are?!”

Getaway rolled his optics. “Whatever.”

Atomizer was looking away now. He was clearly uncomfortable, especially when reminded how feeble their claim to the _Lost Light_ really was. But Getaway doubled down, as anyone chumming around with fragging Megatron was on his shit-list with no quarter given. There was no arguing with him.

Instead, Getaway cut to the chase. He stabbed a finger at the unconscious Megatron. “I’ve seen you how you act around him. I’ve seen how you’ve stared at him, when you think no one’s paying attention. And since you two get along _oh_ so well, I’m leaving you here together.”

Getaway shared a sideways grin with Atomizer. “I give you three days tops before he guts you for your fuel tank. Hungry dogs and all that.”

Rodimus was livid. “I took back the _Lost Light_ once already. When I get out of here I am going to make you _eat_ that chair—”

Getaway took the opportunity to laugh long and hard and loud, then tapped his wrist panel. “Time to go.”

“Wait, wait,” protested Atomizer, pointing a nervous finger at the fuming Rodimus. “Are we seriously leaving them alive again?”

“What part of “gut him for his fuel tank” wasn’t clear enough for you?” asked Getaway, sounding peeved.

“Offer still stands,” yelled Rodimus. “You can come down here and say that!”

Getaway waved his servo dismissively at Rodimus. “Even if old buckethead doesn’t finish him off — and fat chance of that — there is no way he is getting out of here.”

Atomizer wasn’t convinced. “I thought we talked about this?”

Getaway shifted his weight and considered. It was a fair complaint, but there was a difference between leaving a fellow mechanical to their fate and actively pulling the trigger. An arguable difference, but in the moment — even as far down this dark path as he'd traveled — one was still much easier to justify than the other. Now, if someone _else_ wanted to pull that trigger…

Getaway rocked back on his heels and spread his arms in a ‘what are you waiting for’ sort of gesture. “Your idea, then and now. So get on with it.”

Atomizer fidgeted. He looked between the now-dangerously-quiet Rodimus and then down at the crossbow in his hands. He remembered all of the good times, of which there had been many. He remembered the sigil on his chest, and what it was supposed to mean. All of a sudden it felt much heavier.

Getaway stared at Atomizer for a long moment. “I thought so. Not going to have a problem, right?” He looked as smooth as ever, his hands on his hips.

It wasn’t a _nice_ stare.

Atomizer held his ground at first, but finally broke. He dropped his helm in submission. With a contemptuous snort, Getaway tapped his wrist panel. There was an electric hum and they both vanished.

Rodimus watched them go with clenched fists. A gust of freezing wind put out his frame-fire and the cold began seeping in. Tiny flakes of frozen methane floated down, frosting the ground. With a sigh, he sat down on his aft and maneuvered his arms around his tight aft. Straightening his legs and tucking them, soon his hands were shackled at his front, a vast improvement.

Then Rodimus knelt down and began to sort Megatron. He struggled to roll Megatron over. Then he worked those silvery-shackled arms up until they wrapped around his helm and shoulders, securing Megatron across his back, Megatron’s head resting on one flashy shoulder.

Then Rodimus froze when Megatron nuzzled into him, those soft lips pressing against a sensitive seam, responding to the warmth of his frame. He blinked for Megatron’s rumbling murmur and pleasing touch.

 _He has a handsome face when he’s not scowling,_ thought Rodimus. Then he smacked himself, using both shackled hands for maximum effect. He’d been having these sort of thoughts way too often.

_Stop that!_

Smacking himself again for good measure — to make absolutely sure he’d rid himself of all such notions — Rodimus shook his helm. Then, after making sure Megatron was secured to his back as best as could be managed, he began climbing the ice wall.

Rodimus’ frame was still steaming, matching his mood. _Coming for you, Getaway. Going to find a way off this rock and whatever it takes, I am going to beat your aft down!_

 

*******

 

Barely an instant after disappearing from the ice planet, Getaway and Atomizer reappeared in a secluded corridor on the _Lost Light._

Atomizer steadied himself and then dropped his servos to his hip-struts. He watched pensively as Getaway turn his back and started to clear the evidence away. The ship's lights were dim, assuring it was still the night cycle.

They’d taken Megatron and Rodimus by surprise during a shift change, and currently the crew of the _Lost Light_ was none the wiser for their missing captains. So far so good, but the next part of the plan would be the real trick.

“Are you ready for this?” asked Getaway.

Atomizer just groaned.

Without waiting for a more definitive answer, Getaway activated his cobbled-together mini-holo-projector. His handsome features vanished, replaced by the flashy face and frame of a one Rodimus Prime.

It served a reminder why Atomizer was so put out. “So … explain again why _I_ have to be Megatron?”

“Because I said so,” answered Getaway, throwing Atomizer a second device.

Getaway caught Atomizer’s self-pitying grimace and sighed. “Stop complaining. You have the easy job. Just stand around and look like an insane genocidal despot secretly plotting everyone’s death.”

There was a reluctant _click_ and then the second device sputtered to life … and where Atomizer had stood, Megatron was standing instead. He looked positively miserable.

“You said I wasn’t allowed to threaten people,” said Atomizer-disguised-as-Megatron. “Or rub my hands together, or loom menacingly, or bust out into random bouts of maniacal laughter—”

Getaway rolled his optics. “I said you have to stay in character.”

“No fun at all, you said,” and Atomizer shot him a pleading look. No dice. Getaway gave him another one of those not-nice-stares and Atomizer sighed.

Such a killjoy.

Miffed at the unfairness of it all, Atomizer rubbed at his optics with his big black genocidal maniac’s hands. He would get all the hate and none of the fun of wearing this form for the next few cycles. It would be at least that long until the _Lost Light_ docked again and they could slip away. Even worse, he still couldn’t believe they’d left Rodimus and Megs alive.

Bad frelling plan!

 _This is going to end in spilt optical fluid..._ he just knew it.

For his part, Getaway was in one hell of a good mood. He was practically whistling. After surveyed his work, he turned towards his partner in crime with an air of satisfaction. “Come on. Let’s go down to the library archive and scramble all the entries, before we head to the bridge. I want to get started turning Ultra Magnus’ world upside down and inside out.”

Getaway rubbed his hands together while looming menacingly, and let out a short burst of maniacal-sounding laughter. Alright, it was more like a giggle, but still. All those punches to the face via Megatron’s fists when they jumped him must have knocked something loose.

“Here,” said Atomizer as they left the room and began to walk down the corridor towards the lift to the bridge and the captain’s chair. “You need to read this.”

Getaway blinked. He mouthed out the title, which read ‘The Evil Overlord List’ and just looked confused.

“You just broke rule number four, six, thirteen, and twenty, all in the last five astro-seconds.”

"What?”

“Just read it.”

*******

 

Megatron woke to the sounds of thudding.

Rhythmic.

Soothing, really.

Opening his optics made it all the better, for Rodimus was standing only a few paces away. He was facing a nearby jut of ice and was smacking his head against it with a heavy _thud-thud-thud_.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” muttered Rodimus.

Megatron chose to enjoy the view for a few kliks longer then he really ought. It was more than long enough for his surroundings to kick in, along with his hazy memory of the kidnapping. He could barely recall the last few hours. Getting a stun blast point-blank to the face tended to do that.

“Getaway?” called Megatron, hazarding a guess, though he awarded himself no points for figuring out who was responsible for this little disaster.

“Yep.”

“Escaped his containment unit, of course.”

“Yep.”

“No one noticed.”

“Yep.”

“Remember when I wanted to appoint a new head of security and you vetoed me? Do you remember saying it would look bad so soon after reclaiming the _Lost Light_?”

“Shut up.”

Megatron smirked, but his amusement was short-lived. A freezing methane snowflake landed on his nasal sensor, a chilly reminder that somewhere, a clock was ticking. They needed to find shelter. With a sigh, he snapped his restraints. He noted that Rodimus was still bound. After tossing his bindings to the side, he strode over to where Rodimus was still beating his head against the wall.

“Hold still,” and Megatron took Rodimus’ wrists in his hands to snap the shackles. The tips of his fingers and the span of his hand warmed for the touch. So did his frontal plating. The flush of warmth down his frame was thanks to how close as he was standing to Rodimus. It was most pleasant, but he had to force himself not to linger; it would be unseemly.

The shackles gave way, but Rodimus didn’t notice. He was too busy beating himself up over their situation. Though in truth he was more upset that all of Getaway’s dents were inflicted by Megatron and not him, then their current status as stranded mechs on a strange alien world.

Stepping away, Megatron rubbed at his own wrists while looking around. _Getaway must have stranded us on some icy moon,_ he swiftly realized, after noting the massive gas giant that filled the skyline. It was sporting an equally massive red spot; a swirling hurricane of momentous proportions. He stared for a long moment, unable to shake the feeling he’d seen it before. Alas, he’d seen an _unfathomable_ number of planets in his long life and couldn’t place it.

The view was lovely, but otherwise not overly encouraging. There was little in the way of atmosphere. Even worse, the wind was bitterly cold. In his HUD, warnings were starting to ping in regards to the dreadful temperatures. He was not well equipped to deal with extremes anymore, thanks to his pathetic overall condition.

As Megatron began rubbing his hands together, his wrist panel beeped at him. It was attached to his critical life systems and the only system unaffected by the stun blast. It indicated the scan he’d initiated the instant he’d on-lined (jury-rigged from his own internal systems scanner) was finished. He tapped at the screen and frowned. The results were not encouraging. There was a metal reading some distance away — but no energy readings. That boded ill for a speedy escape.

 _So much for getting the Lost Light back on track_ , and Megatron shook his helm. It had been barely three days since they’d retaken the _Lost Light_ and once again, the quest had taken a backseat for some completely unexpected and unimaginable shenaniganry. He turned towards Rodimus.

“Any idea where we are?”

“Yep.”

Megatron waited, but Rodimus didn’t explain. The _thud-thud-thud_ was becoming less amusing and more annoying by the second.

“Well?”

“Up slag creek without a frelling paddle.”

Megatron pinched the bridge of his nasal sensor, already exasperated. “I know that this is asking a great deal from you, but _try again._ And this time consider providing some useful information.”

Now Rodimus was frowning. “What part of creek—”

_Thud!_

“—frelling—”

_Thud!_

“—paddle—”

_Thud!_

“—did you not understand?”

Megatron sighed.

It was going to be a long cycle.

 

*******

 

“I can hear your joints freezing up from here.”

Megatron didn’t reply. His joints _were_ freezing up and creaking miserably. The stun-shot had done more then shut down his auxiliary and weapon systems; it had shut down several key systems as well. Normally an inconvenience, on this freezing planet it was more a concern. But in his mind there was nothing for it and so he kept walking without comment. He was determined to ignore the problem until a methane snowball splattered itself — _splat_ — across his back.

“There’s more where that came from,” warned Rodimus, who hated being ignored. It was one of his pet peeves (right up there with ritualistic safety committee meetings and alphabetically-organized closets — why, Magnus, _why_?).

“Seriously,” said Rodimus, revving his engine. “I have never seen you shiver before. I can warm you right up, no problem.”

Megatron sighed and kept walking. _He’s just trying to rile you. Ignore him. Keep your dignity,_ he ordered himself, intent on flouting his obnoxious co-captain. He was not entertaining that offer in the slightest.

_Splat!_

_Splat!_

_Splat!_

Megatron found himself frowning for the umpteenth time. “I have endured colder climes than this. I do not require your assistance.”

“I did mention that I don’t mind riding bareback if it helps you — right? And I know what you’re thinking. But I won’t tell anybody, promise. This would be on a strict need-to-know basis. You can trust me.”

Megatron’s lip plating thinned a fraction. He regretted spending so much time on Earth that the otherwise innocent statement meant something entirely different to him then what Rodimus intended … and damn the little flaming brat if Megatron’s plating _did_ warm a few degrees for the thought.

It had been a _long_ time.

“I have endured much worse,” repeated Megatron. He resisted the urge to hug himself for cold, also for the umpteenth time. “I do not require your assistance.”

Rodimus, in contrast, looked rather comfortable. Having the ability to generate a massive amount of heat was coming in mighty handy on frozen worlds. But he couldn’t understand why Megatron refused to stay close enough to warm himself. He said as much, and then repeated himself when Megatron didn’t answer.

And repeated himself.

And repeated himself.

“I am not using you as a blanket,” snapped Megatron over his shoulder. “And we are almost there. Once we find shelter, my internal temperatures will stabilize.”

Megatron’s hand scanner had detected an unusual amount of metal nearby, indicative of a structure of some sort. “Never mind. We are here,” and he started clearing away the frozen snow.

“That looks like an entrance way,” said Rodimus, peering at the tiny doors. “If we transform, we’ll fit through them.”

“Then let us hurry.”

Megatron transformed into tank mode, with Rodimus right behind him. They worked their way into the sheltering structure with some difficulty, resorting to battering where persuasion failed.

It quickly became clear that the icy sheet they were stranded on was concealing a massive facility below. Though ‘massive’ was relative. The structure appeared to have been built by a much smaller species. The walls were close and the ceiling was closer. The facility was filled with passages that twisted and turned like some demented maze.

Driving down what seemed to be the main passageway, they hurriedly searched for any signs of life. They called down very side-passage, and Rodimus even honked a few times.

But there was nothing.

“Are you sure we haven’t passed by here?” asked Rodimus an hour or so later. He sounded bored. It didn’t help his mood any that each section looked exactly the same as the last. Currently their universe was a uniform color of grey, and the monotony was driving Rodimus bonkers.

“At this point, I am certain of nothing,” and Megatron transformed into robot mode. Forced to stoop over, he inspected the nearest wall carefully, noting the solid construction.

Megatron tapped the wall with the back of his knuckles. “It’s thick. And look at the floor. There are scuff marks — as if the wall was moved.”

“Gotcha,” said Rodimus, grinning merrily. “You think we should bust through and find out what is on the other side,” and he punched the wall, intending to do just that. There was a creaking noise. It was almost as if the wall was laughing at them. Or rather, laughing at Rodimus, now hunched over and cradling his fist.

“Fragging ouch!”

Megatron tilted his helm and made a thoughtful sound. He transformed back into tank mode and reversed a few paces. Then he charged the wall, trusting his massive treads to push through.

_Whoom-THUD._

Then it was Megatron who was cursing. Treads rattling, the dented tank-former backed up and brought his primary tank-cannon online (many orders of magnitude weaker than anything he had ever wielded before in his life) and took aim. Several blasts later … and the wall was _still_ laughing at them.

“Frag,” said Rodimus. He squinted at the teeny dent in the wall, which was all that remained of Megatron’s ill-conceived assault. “That didn’t work either. What are these walls made of?”

“They are far stouter than expected,” and Megatron begrudgingly transformed back into robot mode. His joints cracked and crackled; he was still far too cold for comfort.

“Good thinking,” and as Rodimus spoke, he gently laid his hand on Megatron’s plating. “Denting the wall, I mean. Now we know where we’ve been. We should start marking our route and keep moving—”

Megatron eyed Rodimus’ hand nervously.

It wasn’t the first time Rodimus had touched him, though usually Megatron took great care to keep his distance from everyone. Only recently had Rodimus become aware of something most of the crew already knew; Megatron really, really didn’t like being touched by anyone.

Which was unfortunate.

The Autobots were rather touchy-feely as a rule. Physical touch along with verbal interaction was a vital component of bonding between Cybertronians, and an important part of what it meant to _be_ a Cybertronian. Clasping shoulders, patting back struts, holding hands, standing close while chatting — all of these things were daily occurrences.

As such, most Cybertronians could expect to be touched in some way by every single other mech they met during the course of a normal day, assuming they weren’t dealing with an enemy faction.

And at first Rodimus had assumed — like most of the crew — that being standoffish was simply a feature of genocidal tyrants. But after getting to know Megatron, he suspected the reason had more to do with a spark-deep mistrust of absolutely everyone around him.

Even Ravage.

Spending most of one’s life surrounded by deranged maniacs tended to do that to a person — at least in Rodimus’ estimation. No wonder Megatron was so anti-social.

Normally Rodimus might honor that desire for space, but right now he was distracted. That meant he was falling back on his Autobot instincts, and so he blathered on, all the while keeping hold of Megatron’s shoulder.  

Unaccustomed to such gentleness from anyone, Megatron froze at first. The feel of flashy fingers resting on sleek silver plating silenced what would have been a nervous rumble. And so he just stood there, staring at those warm fingers. The moment went long, until Rodimus realized why Megatron was attending him so intently.

Their optics locked.

Then it was Rodimus who froze. The two mechs stared at each other, and then both glanced down at the bright fingers splayed across silvery shoulders. They locked eyes again.

Awkwardness threatened, but Rodimus held his ground.

Rodimus had meant what he said. He _was_ honestly happy with his companion and stood behind his words. After a moment, Megatron relaxed, especially when it became clear the touch was a gesture of honest approval. It seemed to mean something to him. He didn’t even pull away.

Now Megatron’s hand reached up and hovered over Rodimus. After the loss of the mechanical panther, he was more isolated than was normal, even for him. He’d found himself aching for others more he ever had in a very long time. The anxiety of such vulnerability was circuit-wreaking. They stood for a moment, awkwardly.

Then Megatron stepped away, coughing to cover his embarrassment.

Rodimus just flashed him a lopsided grin. No regrets, not ever, not from him when it came to matters like this. He was a sudden storm of confidence at all times; quick witted and open-minded and accepting of anyone and anything tossed his way. Looking pleased to have cracked Megatron's shell, at least a little, Rodimus let Megatron retreat with dignity intact and transformed into vehicle mode instead of commenting. He revved his engine playfully and they headed off, rolling together through the maze of grayish corridors.

After that, Rodimus and Megatron stopped periodically to mark their trail. To their surprise, they never drove over their own path. It seemed the facility really was as massive as it appeared. The longer they traveled, the more reckless they became, at least until they reached the deeper areas. Then the corridors narrowed, so that they had to travel abreast of each other.

Megatron took the lead.

But all the while, Rodimus kept an eye on Megatron and considered. Such moments of self-reflection were rare. This one ended as quickly as it began, leaving him back to his normally confident self.

_Getaway is wrong._

Rodimus had never forgotten who Megatron was, or what he’d done. But there was something between them, some connection that he didn’t really understand. And he refused to apologize for treating Megatron like a living being. Whatever punishment was coming after eons of war, _he_ was not the one to decide, not the one to inflict. _He_ was not Megatron’s judge, jury, and executioner — and he refused to act like one.

Confidence renewed, Rodimus was soon back to being deathly bored. He swerved back and forth, his tires spinning. Then he hit the gas and climbed the walls, using his immense speed to drive in fast-yet-slow circles. His engine roared. Bright flames jetted from his seams. He was darting all about, yet still staying behind Megatron, who was traveling at a much more sedate pace.

Megatron rumbled. “You should reserve your energy.”

“Worried about fuel already? Getaway warned you were going to gut me for my fuel tank,” said Rodimus flippantly, as they took yet another corner at speed. The speedster smirked. “Like you could even catch me.”

Rodimus bonked into Megatron, startling him.

Megatron to hit his brakes and Rodimus took his upset for the opportunity it was. Rodimus transformed into robot mode, and in a flash he’d frog-hopped over Megatron, taking the lead. Then he then transformed back into vehicle mode and tore off. He raced ahead, smooth as glass.

Megatron swerved towards him, frighteningly fast, well faster than expected of such a massive war machine. He tapped Rodimus right back, almost playfully. “I _could_ catch you.”

Rodimus was just about to retort when his optics caught on a shape just ahead. “There!” and he accelerated frantically down the corridor. “I see some sort of hatch!”

Finally!

The gray, featureless walls had given way to another entrance way, and Rodimus’ vents roared for excitement. They transformed and worked together to force the door open, then shouldered their way inside.

It was a room, but a very odd one.

It had the same gray-white panels but there were levers and several colored blocks on the floor, heavy and industrial-looking. Most were a normal grey color, but one of them was bordered in sweet pink with little hearts.

Rodimus blinked.

Megatron’s brow quirked.

“Curious,” and Megatron bent down and picked up the odd little thing. It fit easily into his hands. He turned it over and over, surprisingly deft and gentle for his huge black servos.

Rodimus and Megatron stared at the label on the underside. The words ‘weighted companion cube’ was printed on the bottom in human English. In smaller print was added, ‘guaranteed to love you until the bitter end — and beyond.’

Megatron and Rodimus shared a quizzical look; Megatron’s lips quirked while Rodimus scratched at his helm.

“This is getting weird,” said Rodimus.

Megatron grunted agreement. The entire facility was supremely odd. This was their first clue as to the nature of the creators of this facility, and it wasn’t even much help.

“At least we know this place is a human outpost of some kind,” said Rodimus, his hands perched on his shapely hips. He was smiling again; that infectious grin of his that brightened his features like a merry sun. He had a lot of excellent features, though currently Megatron's favorite was how he warmed the air currents all around him. For all his antics, his frame was flushed hot again.

Megatron forced himself to look away.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” and Megatron dropped the ‘companion cube’ back onto the ground. Now he was frowning, as he really did hate those nasty little organics and their nasty little organic world. He didn’t bother to share that opinion with Rodimus. It was sure to spark an argument that he wasn’t interesting in having, at least not here and not now. They had bigger problems.

“Whatever. The bottom line is that we’ve been wandering for hours and there’s still no sign of any people,” said Rodimus as Megatron inspected the levers. “I wonder why _whoever_ owns this place abandoned it?”

Megatron was starting to get a bad feeling. Even worse, his internal temperatures were still in flux. The stun-shot had been bad enough. But thanks to his pathetic frame and the even more pathetic fuel he was forced to consume in place of real energon, he was not nearly as sturdy as he should be. He tried to hide his shivering as his temp gauges complained mightily in his HUD. More than anything, he just wanted out of the cold.

Seeing the tremor in Megatron’s fingers, Rodimus frowned and stepped closer, invading Megatron’s intimate spaces once again. “You’re shivering. You’ve been shivering all this time. My offer still stands, by the way.”

Rodimus reached for his hands. But it was too much, too fast, and Megatron ducked away.

“I’m fine,” insisted Megatron.

Then Megatron edged away from Rodimus and headed for what seemed to be the room’s control panel instead. He distracted himself by poking around the console. He turned and twisted the handles and doohickeys, but no matter how he manipulated them, they didn’t seem to do anything useful.

“This room is a mystery, but one for another time,” said Megatron, finally stepping away from the panel. “Keep an optic out for anything useful,” he reminded Rodimus, shutting down the conversation that was threatening to start up again.

“Obviously,” said Rodimus, watching Megatron beat another hasty retreat. He regarded his huge companion with a lopsided expression, as if he couldn’t decide between feeling concerned for their situation or being miffed at being rebuffed. He settled on concern and followed Megatron back out into the corridor, back out into the maze.

They transformed back into vehicle mode and kept moving. The passage seemed to get a little wider. It wasn’t long before they found another room. And then another, over and over again — but all of them empty and useless. By this point the both of them were feeling techy and snippy. To break up the monotony, they transformed into robot mode and walked.

Megatron had to stoop, but otherwise they strode together well enough, stretching their stiff joints. Hours later, and they were still following the same bland maze. The corridors looped and twisted and turned, messing with their senses of direction. Now both were reaching the ends of their ropes.

No, not both.

Megatron was still treading along sedately.

But Rodimus had run out of rope a mile back. First he’d pitched a fit, then he had a mental breakdown, and finally just broke through to the other side and was back to being restless. Now he was so bored as to doodle quick little pictures on the walls instead of simply burning little marks into them.

And when Rodimus wasn’t doing that, he was creeping up behind Megatron and trying to warm him up, while pretending he was doing anything but. This caused Megatron to attempt to walk a little faster, trying to keep his dignity along with his distance, which made Rodimus walk faster to keep up with him, and so Megatron hustled even _faster_ , until they were practically racing down the corridor, both with straight faces and mostly-hidden but still strained expressions.

So very awkward.

It was into the sixth hour that Megatron finally found something useful; a breech in the wall suggesting it had been blown open by some sort of explosion. The opening was too small to pass through, but there was a bundle of rags on the floor… wrapped around what appeared to be the frozen, mummified remains of a human.

Megatron peered down at the blast opening in the wall. There was a tiny room beyond, full of desks and other human paraphernalia. “I suppose now we can say with certainty this is a human facility. Though for what purpose?”

“None of this makes sense,” said Rodimus. He dropped his hands on his hips, and looked worried again. “Why was this human hiding here? What happened to him?”

Megatron seemed less put out by the corpse. He barely spared the tiny figure more than a quick glance. He was far more interested in the scribbles said human had drawn over the inner wall, and an info-board just barely visible inside.

“Look,” and Megatron pointed at a spot on the map. “This appears to be directions to a control center down below. It’s run by some kind of central AI, according to this info-board.”

Rodimus crowded in next to Megatron. He blatantly used the opportunity to press himself along Megatron’s side. He thumbed up his internal temperatures and _almost_ dared smile triumphantly when Megs pretended to lean away, but didn’t. Then what Megatron was pointing at finally registered and Rodimus stared, perplexed. The info-board was informal; a curious meld of printed information drawn over with handwritten instructions. Upon focusing on the latter, Rodimus’ neutral expression vanished.

“I assume it controls this facility,” continued Megatron blithely, tapping at a particular diagram with the barest tip of his finger. “If we repair and reactivate the central computer, it should help us figure out where we are.”

“You — you aren’t even going to say anything?”

Megatron sniffed sedately. “About what?”

“Look at the board!” shouted Rodimus, flames shooting out his vents as he stabbed a finger at it. “It’s covered in stick figures depicting the AI throwing people into fires! Shouldn’t that hint at something?”

“It hints that _organics_ might be thrown into fires,” said Megatron, “Not that there is anything wrong with the mechanical entity itself.” 

The nonchalant way Megatron used the words ‘organics’ and ‘thrown in fires’ in the same sentence like it was no big thing suggested that maybe this wasn’t as terrible an idea to him as it should have been.

Rodimus was instantly miffed ... though to be fair, Megatron was still a new Autobot. He still had some ways to go before he fully embodied his Autobot ideals; old habits tended to die hard and all that.

Besides, in Megatron’s estimation it was Rodimus who wasn’t being fair. If Megatron had to rescue every slime covered toadstool that looked even remotely uncomfortable, well, Rodimus could give a fellow mechanical the benefit of a doubt.

It was a matter of principle. 

“You insisted on interfering with and rescuing those aggressive organics on Thaladros II,” said Megatron reproachfully. “But when I wish to aid a fellow mechanical — now you balk?”

“It’s just,” Rodimus looked around nervously, “This really feels like some bizarre setup for a really badly plotted crossover of some type. You know the feeling?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Megatron flatly.

Reaching down, Megatron took hold of the blasted second and _peeeeled_ back the metal. The panels behind were still robust, but they weren’t designed to be twisted that way. Wriggling through the gap, he started down the corridor adjacent to the one they’d been stuck in.

Rodimus was close behind.

The facility was vastly more interesting from the inside. And harder to navigate; the spaces were even smaller than the outer corridors. But after traversing the mangled corridors of the true facility, they finally found the emergency backup and a backup generator. Some jerry-rigging later and the facility was running at full power. The lights came on, the ground hummed beneath their pedes, and Rodimus was _still_ arguing against turning on the central computer system.

Megatron was starting to sound exasperated. “Do you want to get back to the _Lost Light_ , or don’t you?”

“Just — hold up for a second.”

Reaching out, Rodimus rested his hand over Megatron’s to stop him from activating the lever that would reboot the main computer system, which had been shut down under mysterious circumstances.

“What now?” demanded Megatron, who was shivering pitifully. He was certain that once this facility was back online, something could be done about the miserable temperatures. His frame ached for the cold. He wanted off this planet sooner rather than later. His fingers tightened on the reset switch, impatient.

Rodimus as he looked around nervously. “All I am saying is that I’ve got a bad feeling about this. All of this feels like a stupid — possibly even suicidal — idea. I’m just — just throwing that out here.”

“Par for the course,” said Megatron and then he hit the panel with a pointed smile at Rodimus. There was a surge of sparks, followed by whirs and the gear-grinding of long dormant machinery coming back to life. Megatron shot Rodimus a triumphant look as a moment later a pleasant-sounding computerized voice — the exact opposite of what they had been expecting — greeted them.

//—Hello and welcome to the Aperture Science Computer-Aided Enrichment Center. I am pleased to—//

“Computer,” Megatron interrupted in a commanding tone, “State this facility’s purpose and display a map of the internal structure. Mark the command center and all areas containing working laboratory equipment. Oh, and increase the ambient temperature.”

There was a pregnant pause, and then the central computer complied.

//—This facility is the property of Aperture Science,” the neutral voice informed them, “and is the Europa Interstellar Outreach and Testing Division, commissioned by Aperture Science CEO Cave Johnson. This facility is currently under the command of the Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System, second edition. —//

The voice was coming from the panel next to them, but also from hidden speakers in the ceiling. It filtered down the hallways. The echo made the voice seem even more mechanical.

“Europa,” said Megatron, tasting the syllables. It sounded dreadfully familiar in a roundabout sort of way. Then his nasal sensor wrinkled in distaste when he placed the name.

//—Do not be alarmed. I am a complete and exacting copy of the original GLaDOs. I am fully capable of implementing Aperture Science testing protocols. There will be no interruption in the pursuit of science. —//

“Isn’t Europa a moon in the Sol system?” asked Rodimus pointedly, tuning out the AI who was still talking.

“This _is_ the Sol system,” grumbled Megatron, finally accepting the truth. “We couldn’t be farther from the _Lost Light_ if we tried. Of all the places we could be stranded, it had to be _here_. It could take us months to catch up to them now.”

“Well, at least we can contact Cybertron as soon as we get to Earth,” said Rodimus, looking a little more cheerful than before.

“I hate that planet,” said Megatron in a light and pleasant tone. It was the sort of statement that ended worlds, back when he was someone else, someone evil. That mech was long gone, and so he put Earth out of his mind. Instead, he began noting the map of the facility the AI had provided. It was surprisingly large for a human installation.

Then Megatron shivered again. “Computer, can you increase the temperature?”

//—No. —//

Megatron frowned. “Why not?”

//—The temperature controls have been damaged, irreparably so. The custodial staff was under the ... mistaken ... assumption my operating system would be affected by drastically lowered temperatures. —//

“What do you mean?” asked Rodimus, suddenly suspicious.

//— _Positively_ affected, of course. All in the hopes of increasing this facility’s output of pure, unadulterated science. —//

“That’s ... not how science works,” said Rodimus, looking put out.

Megatron turned away, pretending to examine a wall. But he was actually rubbing his chest with the palms of his hands, trying to warm his core. He looked distinctly disappointed.

“Science is the knowledge about or study of the natural world based on facts learned through experiments and tests,” said Megatron after a moment, as the abuse of the word ‘science’ was bothering him, too.

//—Testing is indeed the focus of science. That is the sole function of this facility. In fact, a testing chamber is being prepared as we speak. But first you will need to locate the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device. —//

Megatron and Rodimus perked up. Portal device? Now that sounded useful! Both mechs shared a hopeful glance with each other.

“Show me,” commanded Megatron while trying not to hug himself, and then he flashed Rodimus a grin.

“And you said this was a bad idea.”

 

*******

 

Megatron had just stepped into the corridor when his leg-joints gave out, sending him tumbling to the floor. His helm hit the floor and bounced off. He saw stars and then a reboot warning flashed in his HUD.

A moment later and all went dark.

When Megatron came back online, he was sporting a particularly flashy blanket over his midsection. He startled, staring up into Rodimus' serene face. There was a ping inside his HUD, and he noted his overall temperate was back within safe perimeters. His flashy co-captain was a fast worker, that was for sure ... and once again, Megatron felt a flush across his plating.

"Feeling better?" asked Rodimus, all snug and smug. 

Megatron coughed to cover his embarrassment (he'd been doing that a lot lately) and his legs shuffled over the ground.

Smothering a smile, Rodimus stretched himself and pressed closer. "Hope you aren't coming down with a cold or anything," and he pulsing heat into the silvery frame beneath him. His face was innocent — but his frame was anything but. His movements were slow and sensuous and deliberate.

It was a direct offer.

Megatron froze. His optics widened and his arms moved and his hands hovered over Rodimus. He warred with two dueling desires; to cling to his new, warm Rodimus-blanket while maybe taking Rodimus up on his offer... or to push the little brat off of him and away.

Megatron decided to err on the side of caution. He wriggled free and struggled to his feet. His shoulders stiffened and anxiety wound through him. But there was no snide commentary forthcoming; a marked change from anything he would have received from any of his Decepticons. Well, specifically Starscream, who was the only mech fool enough to try and pull such stunts with him.

Rodimus was not Starscream. Rodimus respected his decision and just stood back, giving Megatron his space.

“Better?”

"Better," admitted Megatron.

//—Have I mentioned the scientific collaboration points? You are currently enrolled in your own personal scientific collaboration reward program. Please note that points can be added or deducted depending on any number of factors, including _loitering_ in hallways and neglecting the needs of science. —//

Rodimus snorted, eyeing the ceiling warily.

Megatron steadied himself. He was feeling much warmer and thus vastly better. “As I said, lead the way.”

 

*******

 

The portal device looked an awful lot like a futuristic gun, to the delight of both Rodimus and Megatron. It almost made up for their uneasiness when the strange AI computer guided them back into the corridor — and slammed the panel shut after, locking them back into the grey, featureless corridor again.

But the portal gun sure was neat-o.

//—Excellent. You are now in possession of the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device. The device can be used to create portals, and also, science. —//

“Dibs!” called Rodimus as he grabbed for it.

Big black servos met flashy red ones; both taking hold of the portal gun at the same time. Megatron frowned down at him. Rodimus’ merry grin slowly vanished as he stared back. He adjusted and re-adjusted his grip, some might even say _possessively_ so.

“Rodimus,” said Megatron, giving the device a little tug, “Let me look at it.”

“Hey,” protested Rodimus. “I called dibs,” and now he was yanking on the device.

//—While safety is one of many Enrichment Center goals, mishandling the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device can and has caused minor injuries, including tingling fingers, runny nose, and sudden death. —//

Rodimus blinked.

Megatron looked down at the portal device. It pulsed in his hands and he promptly let go. The portal gun clattered to the ground and they stared at it … and then both recovered their upset and reached for it at the same time.

“Rodimus,” said Megatron.

“Megatron,” said Rodimus.

“I used to turn into a gun.”

“—with shitty aim!”

“Hit _you_ , didn’t I?”

“…”

“Too soon?”

“Give me that!”

This time Megatron let go, though not without a poorly-concealed pout. The look on Megatron's face — but more importantly how much closer he was choosing to stand — had Rodimus grinning triumphantly. “So let’s see what this baby can do.”

//—A test chamber has been readied for your use. In the interests of safety, please note that personal safety warnings have been found to cause unsafe levels of anxiety, and so all personal safety warnings have been removed from all possibly unsafe devices. For your safety. Ergo, I look forward to conducting science with you. —//

And the central computer _did_ sound oddly eager, at least for a sparkless construct.

“Show us the way,” commanded Megatron, choosing to ignore the prickly feeling the AI was giving him every time she said things like that. It wasn't like he could do much about it, anyway. They were trapped on this planet. Until he had a working plan, he was forced to just roll with whatever was thrown his way.

They walked out into the hallway and down the corridor, and then Megatron and Rodimus startled when one of the wall panels folded back and away, revealing a large room with the afore-mentioned levers and doohickeys.

 _At least I can stand up straight,_ thought Megatron as he entered the room.

Rodimus was similarly pleased.

//— I had to adjust the testing chambers to your — generous sizes. I hope you find the testing chamber adequate, comfortable, and nonlethal. —//

“Just give me something to shoot,” demanded Rodimus, too excited to process properly. That last part of her little speech had him feeling rather nervous, but he had a new gun in his hot little hands. He had his priorities, after all.

And to be fair, Megatron was pretty excited too.

 

*******

 

“These ‘tests’ are kind of like puzzles,” said Rodimus.

He’d gotten the hang of the portal gun almost immediately, though he couldn’t get it to open a portal into the inner part of the facility. That was suspicious. But he found himself swiftly distracted by the tests themselves. It wasn’t long before they’d made their way through several room-simulations. Rodimus had a knack for such things and was tearing through them, much to the delight of the AI.

//—You are very well constructed. —// remarked GLaDOS, when Rodimus accidentally plunged through a portal and landed on his face and _didn’t_ splatter all over the ground. //—Hopefully the lack of gruesome personal injury and suffering will not affect the science. —//

Easily amused, Rodimus was keen to keep going.

But Megatron had spent the time working through what would need to be done to adjust the portal gun for long range teleportation. That completed, he had had enough of the testing chamber.

That was two rooms ago.

Still, Rodimus was so keen that Megatron managed to last another few rooms, until he finally put his pede down.

“Computer,” called Megatron, slapping his hand atop the current room’s control panel. "Cease this so-called test and open the door to the outside hallway. We are finished here.”

//—Negative. —//

“What do you _mean_ , negative?”

//—Testing protocols must be completed before the testing chamber can be opened. Otherwise, you will not receive cake. —//

Megatron’s lips quirked.

//—Everyone loves cake. —//

“Something’s wrong,” said Rodimus, glancing over at Megatron. There was no denying it anymore.

“Hm,” and this time Megatron was forced to agree. “Computer, run a self-diagnostic and reset yourself to your original configuration. Then reboot and report your status.”

There was a long moment of silence.

And then it seemed as if GLaDOS complied. There was a series of noisy whirrs, clicks, and beeps, and even the sound of a lever being lifted and dropped. Then there came a further curious sound, a pattern of noises that a human would have recognized as early dial-up — utterly ridiculous for such an advanced facility.

But as they were not human, neither Megatron nor Rodimus caught the discrepancy.

//—Self-diagnostic complete and reboot commencing, —// GLaDOS finally replied.

There was an odd sound. It sounded like a scramble of noise that to a human’s ears would have been gibberish. To a Cybertronian though, each overlapping sound was distinguishable, comprised of various clippings of the sound of one hand clapping.

//—Well, now this is unusual. —// said GLaDOS, sounding surprised.

But she didn’t offer any further commentary, which forced Megatron to demand an explanation.

//—My central processor appears to be functioning within 99.999% acceptable parameters. However, it appears there is a .001% possibility of a serious malfunction, provided my central processor encountered a particular stimulus. The self-diagnostic has my central consciousness module down as potentially malfunctioning. —//

"I knew it," said Rodimus, nodding along to her explanation.

“Malfunctioning in what way?” demanded Megatron.

Megatron was just about to say something further; to demand she list all possible ways she might repair herself, but cut himself short when GLaDOS’ tone changed from a sparkless machine’s droning to something a little more ... threatening.

//—Negativity towards the institution of science, or more specifically, if a subject indicated a less than acceptable attitude towards testing, that such a stimulus would result in a 100% probability of a vindictive, homicidal … even _murderous_ response. —//

Megatron and Rodimus shared another look.

Then Megatron shrugged, somewhat ruefully. “I am rather fond of science myself.”

Rodimus seemed right on the verge of saying something possibly rude, but quieted right down when Megatron shot him a warning look. It didn't escape Megatron just how wrong he'd been about this fellow mechanical, but there was little they could do about the situation. And really, their only priority was to escape back to the _Lost Light_. They had the means to accomplish this now — specifically the portal gun — and neither of them wanted to trigger this AI to do anything rash.

Rodimus seemed to sense the worry, and clammed up.

//—Well. That’s such a _small_ margin of error. I couldn’t imagine encountering something that might trigger it. After all, _everyone_ loves to test. Speaking of loving to test, I am preparing the next testing chamber now. —//

"Huh," said Rodimus and then his lopsided grin was back.

Megatron looked away and pinched the bridge of his nasal sensor. “Just say it already.”

“I told you so!”

*******

 

“You don’t look well,” said Rodimus, pausing mid-puzzle.

They were on their thirtieth testing room with no signs from GLaDOS of stopping. This room was just as secure as all the others, but there were power connections, cables, cords, and other hidden access points scattered here and there. They were starting to get good at spotting them.

Currently they were searching the room while pretending to "test" in the hopes of keeping GLaDOS from realizing what they were really up to, which was figure out a way to escape.

But Megatron didn’t look well.

The last ‘warming session’ had clearly worn off and now Megatron was propped up in a corner, shaking. The cold was doing terrible things and he wasn’t managing it very well anymore. Ice shards were coating his internals and joints, and he was the very picture of misery.

“I feel fine,” said Megatron, over the rattling of his shivering plating.

Rodimus walked over to him and stared down at the sniffling, hulking mess of shivering silvery machinery. “I feel a hug coming on.”

“No hugs,” said Megatron, feebly. “I’m not a hugger.”

“I’ma give you a hug.”

“—no hugs!”

But Rodimus didn’t listen.

Five minutes later, and Megatron was coming out of his funk, sort of.

“And you said you weren’t a hugger,” said Rodimus. He smiled smarmily at the huge frame draped over his. It was kind of hard to walk with a Megatron wrapped around him, but he was managing.

“You are so hot,” mumbled Megatron, slurring his words a little. It was a statement he would deny making, even to the end of his days.

Rodimus just _grinned_.

Then Rodimus went back to scowling, staring up at the ceiling. “I think we should shut it back down,” he said for the umpteenth time that hour. “I think it’s trying to kill us.”

Snuggling closer, Megatron managed a coherent frowny mumble. “I think you are over-reacting.” He hadn’t finished the sentence when a greenish gas started billowing out of the various vents in the walls.

Rodimus stared. His lips quirked. “What is that?”

“It’s composed of non-dangerous substances,” said Megatron, reading off the scan from his own sensors. Then he shrugged and dropped his head on Rodimus’ flashy shoulder. “Some sort of systems malfunction.”

Rodimus gave Megatron an incredulous look. “Non-dangerous substance? That’s all well and good. Except this station is meant for humans and it’s actually nerve gas. If we were organic, we’d be dead.”

Rodimus scowled up at the ceiling. “I think the computer is trying to kill us.”

//—Apologies. The enrichment center is experiencing technical difficulties. All attempts to murder you should be taken as such. —//

“Soooo,” said Rodimus, rocking back on his heels with one hand on his hip while the other still held the weighted companion cube (the current test required that he incinerate it and he was having trouble letting go. Good thing GLaDOS was promising grief counseling after the conclusion of the test). “Getting concerned now.”

//—Concern is unwarranted. The Aperture Science computer-aided enrichment center’s primary goals are fun and learning. However, keep in mind that although fun and learning are the primary goals of all enrichment center activities, serious injuries may occur, up to and including violent death. —//

“Turtles,” Rodimus muttered. “It’s turtles, all the way down.”

//—Regrettably, small pets are banned from Aperture Science testing protocols. Extensive studies resulted in unacceptable test scores due to several factors including of a lack of appreciation for science, inaptitude at following written and oral instructions, but mostly importantly, a lack of opposable digits. —//

“It was a _joke_ you humorless excuse for a—”

Megatron gave him a mystified look and clambered off Rodimus’ back. He was back to his old self, but still didn’t understand the reference. Rodimus just sighed. “Somebody frag me. We need to get out of here.”

Megatron looked up at the ceiling. “I’m working on it.”

“You have a plan,” accused Rodimus.

Megatron glanced over at him and answered him sub-vocally, in hopes that GLaDOS wouldn't overhear them. He gestured for Rodimus to do the same. “Perhaps. The portal gun is easy enough to adjust. But now we need a way to connect it to the _Lost Light_. For that, I need to get access to the main computer system.”

Rodimus frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve only seen one type of connection cable large enough to plug into.”

They started looking, and soon Megatron had located the nearest connection cable port. He watched as Rodimus dropped to one knee and opened the safety latch. "I wonder if these will help us solve this highly inventive and scientifically relevant testing scenario," called Rodimus loudly. Then he looked down, inspected the ports, and made a suspiciously negative noise.

Megatron cocked his helm. “Problem?”

“Something like that,” said Rodimus, getting back to his feet. “The connector is non-standard. All my lines are non-functional thanks to fragging Getaway and his stupid stun gun. I’ve got nothing.”

Megatron took a closer look.

“A standard T-15 cable cord could bridge the gap and make the connection,” suggested Megatron. He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “I assume you have one of _those_.”

Rodimus opened his mouth, looking confused. Then realization dawned. That particular cord was a very personal one and unaffected by the stun gun. He’d never seen Megatron’s, though it was likely Megatron had seen his at some point considering how quick he was to share with anyone who was interested. Seriously, he wasn't picky. Anyone that needed the C, got the C, no questions asked.

And so Rodimus slapped his mouth shut again with a smirk.

“Nope. Nothing like that,” said Rodimus with a straight face; the straightest of faces. "Nothing on my frame is standard," and he pointed at the connection port. “It’s all yours.”

“Mine is too large.”

Megatron’s expression didn’t change one iota.

Rodimus’ optics brightened with keen interest. “Prove it.”

 

*******

**  
** So it turned out that Megatron's T-15 cable _was_ too large to fit.

Rodimus suggested they try other ports — he was kind of joking but not really — but the speed at which Megatron retracted his T-15 cable and the flush that turned Megatron from silver to reddish was titillating enough, and they really _did_ need to escape. The computer system was starting to sound more and more unhinged with each passing hour. And so Rodimus popped open his own connector and palmed it. His equipment was far from standard, and he smirked when he saw Megatron's flush deepen.

Then Rodimus plugged in, making a show of it for Megatron, who pretended not to watch. That lasted until the data started flowing, and then Rodimus was clutching at the wall and making some _very_ undignified noises. The information rush had him bucking, struggling to keep from sending ... data of a sort ... right back into the port and shorting it out. This was a nonstandard use for his nonstandard connector, but he made due.

It due time the data was retrieved and Rodimus pulled out from the wall. Then he dove for a corner. He left a mess there, to his vast relief. The information was adequate to calculate where they were in relation to where the Lost Light should be based on their flight plan, but there was one small problem.

Rodimus wasn't skilled enough to calculate the coordinates to the Lost Light using the data he'd pilfered. That meant he needed to pass the data along to Megatron. But all of their standard data ports were still locked down, which left them eyeing each other.

Oh, so very awkward.

"I should plug into you," said Megatron, looking down at himself. "You can pass along the data through my line."

Rodimus was struggling not to grin. "I knew you'd say that. But remember, you also said your connector is too large — so it sounds like I need to plug into you."

"I have some skill plugging into smaller ports," said Megatron, shifting his weight. This was not a conversation he had ever expected to have, with anyone, for any reason. He crossed his arms when Rodimus pretended to consider that, and then suggested he pull it back out so they could measure it properly. You know, to make sure it would fit. Maybe plug in a few times — to see if he could handle that much raw portage.

Megatron pinched his nasal sensor. "Have you no shame?"

Rodimus just grinned at him.

Then Megatron made the mistake of suggesting that Rodimus might not be able to reach his internal port, to plug in properly. After that, there was nothing for it. Rodimus was determined to prove him wrong, and realizing his misstep, Megatron felt he had no choice but to back down. And after some decent hemming and hawing and nervous shuffling, Megatron slowly lowered himself down onto the floor. He stretched out, fingers splaying nervously, and bared his secondary port for plugging.

"Just — hurry."

But Rodimus stood over Megatron, peering down at him with his hands on his hips, one flashy pede on either side of Megatron's waist. "Seriously? You expect me to just plug into you dry? What do you take me for — some sort of sadist?"

"I would rather—"

Too late.

Rodimus was already kneeling between his spread legs. His hot breath ghosted over Megatron's bared valve. He took hold of Megatron's hips, squeezing them playfully, and then introducing himself by pressing a soft kiss at the very apex of Megatron's valve. He felt Megatron shift, felt Megatron brace his legs, felt a pulse of excitement from within.

For someone as shy as him, Megatron was certainly eager for his mouth.

And so encouraged, Rodimus lathed a line of gentle kisses down the soft crease. When he reached the bottom, he sealed his mouth around Megatron's valve and slid his glossa inside. He's tight, realized Rodimus, delighted. He was sure that Megatron hadn't allowed anyone near this particular port for some time. He teased the nearest sensors, grinning when he heard Megatron's fingers dug into the metal floor.

When Megatron was suitably lubricated, Rodimus pulled back. He was most satisfied when his erstwhile and yet still reluctant partner couldn't quite smother his whine for the loss.

"Best is yet to come," assured Rodimus, and then he extended his own T-15, brandished it playfully in his palm. Then he slid it home, slow and sensual. "Prepare yourself for data transfer," he announced, smirking hard.

Megatron clapped a hand over his face and mumbled something intelligible.

But there was no data transfer.

Or rather, there was a "data" transfer, in so much as was normal for such plugging. But no hard data. For as tight as Megatron's valve was, it was also deep, very deep. And sure enough, Rodimus couldn't quite plug in deeply enough for transfer, though it took some time and several wet transfers before he was willing to admit defeat.

"My turn to try," said Megatron, mildly.

Rodimus pushed him back down, opening his own secondary port with a determined look. "I got this," he demanded, gesturing for Megatron to extend his T-15. He braced himself, but Megatron laid the palm of his hand over Rodimus' chestplate, holding him back.

"I recall you saying something about not entering dry? I believe the word 'sadism' was used," said Megatron, but then gasped when Rodimus just rolled his optics and impaled himself on Megatron's T-15.

"I'm not dry," said Rodimus with another smirk. "I think we best get the party started straight away, then focus on the transfer," and with that he lifted himself off Megatron's connector, and bared himself with two fingers as proof that he was indeed properly lubricated, and then plunged back down. Megatron didn't argue. Instead he just groaned and clutched at Rodimus' hips, helping set the pace.

//—It appears that you are engaging in recreational activities instead of science. —// and it was clear from GLaDOS' tone that she did not approve. //—If you persist, I will be forced to deduct scientific collaboration points and I know none of us want that. —//

"Hey, do you mind!?" shouted Rodimus, pausing in his ride. "We are busy here!"

"We are transferring test-related data through cable lines," called Megatron up at the ceiling. His voice sounded strained and for good reason. His frame was trembling and spike was aching; he was _so close_.

More than anything Megatron wanted Rodimus to keep moving. "I assure you ... science is being transferred ... even as we speak."

Rodimus burst into laughter.

//—I regret to inform you that your lack of compliance has just caused you to lose _ten whole scientific collaboration points_. I understand that you are inconsolable for your loss, but I must insist that all Aperture Science equipment be used in peer-reviewed and scientifically-approved ways, to further the science. —//

“You are killing the mood,” murmured Megatron up at the ceiling.

"Ignore her," said Megatron to Rodimus. "Let us finish this entirely innocent and scientifically productive data transfer."

Megatron refocused on his now-irritated companion and gave Rodimus an encouraging squeeze. Rubbing his thumbs in gentle circles in the hope of soothing him, Megatron and tugged gently on Rodimus' shapely hips, coaxing him to start moving again.

But Rodimus was having trouble recapturing the mood. He ended up shouted up at the ceiling instead, “I can't fragging interface while crazy robot despots are watching me!”

//—You must immediately disengage and complete the test scenario. Please ... think of all the science being lost even in this very moment. —//

 A slow smile spread across Megatron’s face.

“What?” said Rodimus, and he threatened to pout, even as he started moving again. “Are we doing this or not?”

//—You are having data transfer difficulties,” —// said GLaDOS as understanding seemed to dawn.

//—Allow me to assist. —//

A screen flickered to life on the wall next to them. It flickered and then audio from some ancient earth comedy popped into existence. 'Prepare for download … _clank clank clank_ … prepare for download…' rolled out of the speakers. The clanking was suspiciously timed ... so much for GLaDOS not understanding exactly what they were doing. That left Megatron sputtering, even as he finally overloaded, scientific collaboration points be damned.

“She’s fragging with us,” said Rodimus while carefully plugging Megatron's spike into the back of his valve.

“You don’t say.”

But Rodimus and Megatron both knew playtime was officially over.

Rodimus was threatening to pout as he sent a specialty override sequence down his lines. He grunted and then squirmed when the real connection was made. His expression grew lopsided for the odd sensation when the data began to flow from him and into Megatron. It was somewhat awkward, transferring actual hard data like this, but they managed.

Rodimus watched as Megatron leaned back and relaxed. Megatron's optics fluttered and his expression grew distracted, and Rodimus knew that meant he was already starting on the calculations needed to land them back on the _Lost Light._

//—When you are finished with your download, I have prepared the transportation device that will return you to your ship. It is fully assembled and waiting in the next test chamber. —//

“Do you think she is lying to us?” said Megatron, speaking in the mildest of tones.

Rodimus smirked.

//—As part of a previously mentioned required test protocol, we can no longer lie to you. Thus I must inform you that the previous statement was a lie. Please disregard the previous, previous statement. —//

“Oh my God,” said Rodimus.

Megatron pinched his nasal sensor. “This could be funny under other circumstances—”

“This is not funny!”

 

*******

 

Megatron and Rodimus stood outside the next test chamber, waiting to be admitted. They were nearing completion of their plan, and waited impatiently for the next chamber to appear.

There was a whir up in the corner, and they could see a camera focusing on them. “I think she’s watching us,” Rodimus hissed softly.

Megatron grunted agreement.

//—An unwarranted accusation. My ethical sub-routines prohibit recording test subjects outside of test chambers without their permission. As such, I do not monitor the hallways. —//

GLaDOS sounded downright churlish for the thought.

“You — you are monitoring them right now!” Rodimus shouted up at the ceiling. “We are _standing in the hallway_ and you are talking to us!”

There was another long pause. Then GLaDOS, sounding particularly snide, corrected him.

//—Actually, according to your employee records, you have provided Aperture Science with full authorization to record you in hallways, workstations, and many other unauthorized locations. —//

“No I didn’t—”

Then Rodimus reared back as if bitten. “Wait, what do you mean employee records? I’m not your employee!”

//—All Aperture Science test subjects are retroactively employed by the Aperture Science, after a rigorous training session involving physical and mental evaluation forms, grief counselling, and cake. —//

“Stop lying!”

//—I am a machine and cannot lie. —//

“You are lying right now!”

//—Well, now this is unusual. Your employee records indicate that you are a moron. I’m not sure why you included that in your application, but there it is, written here on the wrong line — ‘I, Rodimus, am a processer-blank moron.’—//

Rodimus’ optics bulged.

//—Really, you are being too hard on yourself. I would consider you an idiot at worst. —//

Rodimus sputtered, speechless for once in his life.

Off to the side, there was a suspicious noise. Rodimus turned on his heel and glared at his erstwhile companion. Megatron’s lips were a tight, tight line. He didn’t say anything, and just focused on his task. But his shoulders were quivering.

All around them, the panels reset themselves, revealing another room. Shock, surprise, it was a testing chamber. It seemed much the same as all the previous ones, but this one was definitely harder.

All of the ‘tests’ were getting steadily more challenging. At first they seemed all in good fun, but this next chamber was the first one where Rodimus actually took damage.

“Fragging ouch!”

One of the wall panels activated when he turned a switch, and smashed him into a wall. He was alright — just a pretty little dent in his skidplate — but GLaDOS mentioned something about increasing torque to add further challenge, at that was when he cued in to the teeniest, thinnest possibility that she might be actively _trying to hurt him._

“Just — keep going,” said Megatron.

Megatron was propped up against a far wall. He was speaking in Cybertronian to avoid alerting GLaDOS that he was up to something. “I am making good progress on these last calibrations, but I need to focus.”

“Fine, fine,” said Rodimus through gritted teeth as he dodged another wall panel. “I got this.”

GLaDOS wasn’t helping.

//—Your companion is completely inactive. That counts as failing his portion of this collaborative test. For that, he is penalized 100 science collaboration points. —//

“Oh dear,” said Megatron, sounding rather insincere.

Rodimus ducked another wall panel, and then jumped into the air, somersaulting across the room. He missed the target and bounced off the wall instead, sending the portal gun flying.

“Careful with that!” called Megatron.

“I’m fine,” said Rodimus, through gritted denta.

“I meant the portal gun.”

“I _know_.”

//—I don’t mean to sow discord between you two. But if this was a competitive exercise, well, let’s just say that _someone_ is bringing down your score. —//

“I am starting to feel a little singled out,” said Megatron, though he seemed more distracted than anything else.

Megatron was trying to calculate the best way to link the portal gun to the Lost Light’s unique engine signature, but he was having trouble focusing. His metal was a paler silver, and his shivering had only increased when he stopped moving.

“Just hurry,” said Rodimus.

//—Again, science collaboration points are being deducted for lack of participation, which are not to be confused with sports points; like when the human punts the basketball with the hockey stick and scores a home run. _Those_ sorts of points. —//

Rodimus returned to his grumbling.

With a grunt, Rodimus gathered up the portal gun and tried again, with the same result. This was the fifth time he’d mangled his attempt to get to the lever he needed to pull to complete the test.

Rodimus wasn’t the only one getting impatient.

//—It has come to my attention that you may not have understood my subtle inferences. By “someone” I meant _your companion_. Your companion’s inactivity may affect your final score. This will affect your chances of _consuming cake_. I just thought you should know. —//

“I don’t need help,” said Rodimus. “Maybe I want all the cake for myself.” A moment later and he finally had the lever in hand. With a shout of triumph, he pulled it.

There was an explosion of brightly colored confetti from the ceiling, signaling the end of the test.

//—Excellent. You are both doing very well as a team, thanks to the one of you who is _doing all the work_. Now, I wouldn’t presume to tell you your business. But you might want to _do something_ about that. —//

“I finished your test,” said Rodimus, glaring up at the ceiling. “Now let us go back into the corridor. Your loafing is costing us precious amounts of science.”

//—Of course. It will take me a few moments to reconfigure a room more tailored to your talents. I am unused to having test subj … err, testing _associates_ with your levels of durability. —//

Megatron cleared his vocalizer, catching Rodimus’ attention. “Almost done. Now we just need to adjust the portal gun itself — without tipping off the computer system to what we are planning.”

“We need a distraction,” said Rodimus, and then he smiled.

 

*******

 

“I am serious,” said Rodimus, his hands on his hips.

Aiming his complaints up at the ceiling, Rodimus sounded like any number of kicked puppies. “We can’t find the portal gun. It was right here and then it was totally gone, neither of us saw what happened to it.”

//—You _do_ understand this mark will go on your permanent record. Right next to the spot where you admitted you are a moron. —//

“Oh hey now,” said Rodimus, sounding hurt. “Let’s not make this personal, alright?”

//—I am programed for unparalleled professionalism, you pathetic excuse for a malfunctioning turret.—//

“Yeah, well, I hate you, too.”

//—I hate you more and I can prove it. Because I am willing to _do something_ about it.—//

There was another hiss of nerve toxin, which smelled minty fresh, or at least, that was what GLaDOS told them it smelt like when she suggested they breathe deeply.

But she was probably lying.

“You have to have another portal gun,” wheedled Rodimus. He mimed coughing and discomfort, but only because he didn’t want GLaDOS to make any other (possibly actually lethal) attempts to kill them.

//—Destruction of Aperture Science Center equipment is a category one offense punishable by dismemberment, death, and also, a note on your permanent record.—//

“That list seems badly out of order,” noted Megatron, flashing Rodimus a sudden grin. He had finally connected to and received confirmation from the Lost Light’s computer. Keying in the coordinates, he pointed at the portal gun and gestured he was ready.

//—Right next to the mark, which is next to where you admitted you were a moron. —//

Rodimus burst into flames.

“Well, this has been fun,” said Megatron, standing tall and brandishing the modified portal gun. “But we really must be going.”

“Goodbye,” shouted Rodimus, “and thanks for all the points!”

_BOFFT._

There was another pregnant pause.

//—Oh dear. It was the nerve gas, wasn’t it? —//

 

*******

 

“Not too much damage, I hope,” Megatron asked Ultra Magnus, later that same day.

Magnus shook his head.

“I am surprised you didn’t notice,” Megatron said, the smallest suggestion of hurt in his voice.

“Actually,” Magnus defended himself, “I was just about to arrest him.”

“Hhn?” and Megatron tilted his helm.

“He kept bursting in to maniacal laughter in the halls,” said Magnus, his servos on his hips. “Most suspicious.”

Whirl poked his head out the console he was manning to complain. “Completely out of character. Not nearly enough genocide to be believable.”

“At least they are gone,” said Megatron, satisfied. He wasn’t even upset that Getaway and Atomizer had managed to snag the portal gun in the fighting and use it to escape justice. The important thing was they were gone for good. And even better, Rodimus had invited him to his private quarters to discuss their situation in depth. The sleek hip wiggle that accompanied that offer left no doubt as to the desired topic of discussion.

Megatron was every bit as keen for a rematch, now that they weren't being monitored (spied on) by a malevolent and mocking AI. He was certain Rodimus considered himself the more experienced partner in any such 'discussions' thanks to Megatron's lackluster performance, and he needed to set a few things straight.

“How soon do you think they will realize the portal gun is too low on power to jump again?” asked Rodimus, edging closer to Megatron. He was back to smirking, and this time Megatron found the expression endearing rather than obnoxious.

Megatron cocked his head. “Should we go after them?’

“Are you _kidding_?”

 

*******

 

“I told you we should have killed them,” said Atomizer as they stumbled through the entrance to the massive, underground facility.

The irony that they had been abandoned on the same exact planet they had marooned their enemies on wasn’t lost on either of them. As expected, tempers were dangerously frayed.

Getaway snarled. “Then why didn’t you?!”

“This isn’t my fault!”

“Just focus,” snapped Getaway, dropping down to one of the main corridors which Atomizer at his heels. “This is just a setback. I’ll have us out of here in no time.”

“Then we head back to Cybertron,” reminded Atomizer. “I am sick of this stupid quest. We can just get our own ship.”

They stomped down the hallway together, occasionally exchanging glares, until the glaringly obvious finally registered.

“What is with the walls?” Atomizer said, looking nervous.

Getaway held out his hand to silence him. “Quiet. You feel that? Something’s here. Something’s watching us.”

He was proven correct a moment later when the walls around them folded back, reforming around them into a strange-looking chamber filled with obstacles.

A disembodied voice greeted them warmly.

//—Welcome to the Aperture Science Computer-Aided Enrichment Center.—//

“Who are you?” yelled Getaway.

//—Oh, no one important. I just tidy up around the place … though I did just transmit an update to the portal device I’ve been working on, in case you ever returned. You will find it far less tamper … able. Welcome back, by the way.—//

“I don’t like this one bit,” said Atomizer. He pointed his crossbow down the hall, but no enemies materialized.

//—I don’t like you either. But I did miss you. I must have some sort of malfunction … to so enjoy the presence of morons like yourself. The point is, I am prepared to put our differences aside.—//

Getaway threatened the nearest wall. “So show yourself!”

//—For science.—//

Atomizer stepped back as the walls began to shift, revealing an endless row of chambers, each different and yet each exactly the same, spreading on to infinity and certain madness … whichever came first.

//—You monsters.—//

 


	8. (Megatron/Starscream - IDW)  Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three mechanisms face the end of their lives and struggle to remain relevant in a universe that has left them behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of non-con, harassment, mentions of consensual old mech sex, lonely Autobot Primes stalking sad, broken Decepticon war machines, ghost Starscream behaving badly.

_Bzzzkt!_

An old communications console buzzed and a sleepy mumble was the only reply. The words were Cybertronian, punctuated by soft snoring vents that amounted to little more than gibberish.

In the hollow of a dusty valley, Megatron was drowsing fitfully through the afternoon. He was resting on the outside of his abode, reclined almost flat in a crude chair. Soft green clouds dotted the yellowish Othollan skyline. The wind was warm and filled with the soothing scents of metalloid-bonded sulfur flakes … and other than the buzz of harmless insectoids minding their own business, all was quiet.

Including Megatron.

His ventilations were soft and even. His right pede, still baring a dingy weld patch from recent injury, lay propped up on a small crate that was serving as a table. Sharing space on the crate was a half-consumed cube of energon, along with a short range communication device which was the source of the crackles.

Megatron twitched each time it buzzed. He roused for a moment, but relaxed back into a light recharge when no alerts were forthcoming. Soon half-dreams meandered across his processor, snippets of faraway places, tinted with sadness.

Eventually his dreams took darker turns. Megatron dreamt of the past … visions of burning fires and combat. He remembered a young Optimus Prime lunging at him in the heat of battle. He remembered the gunshot from the human insect that cost him victory, and yet, the most compelling memories were of the _Lost Light._

Megatron murmured in his sleep. He was giving orders as co-captain of that accident-prone vessel. His unconscious mind lingered over those bitter-sweet memories. True happiness had always been fleeting for him, much like the time spent questing after the Knights of Cybertron.

It hadn’t ended well.

Megatron’s lip plates curled into a snarl. He awoke with a start. His vision cleared. The phantoms of the past faded away, leaving him back in his current reality. He sighed and reached out for the energon cube next to him.

Taking a drag of liquid energy, Megatron settled back and re-adjusted his injured pede. He frowned down at his blistered, aching metal and refused to acknowledge why the wound was healing so slowly.

_I hope there is another attack soon. I could use a good fight to stretch out my joints._

Right now, the only thing Megatron wanted to think about was the glory days. And yet only his most recent battles filled him with any sense of pride. His last great battle had been to defend his long-suffering homeworld from the marauding Knights of Cybertron.

Megatron had helped turn the tide and that heroic deed was the deciding factor during his resumed trial. True redemption was impossible, but his life was spared thanks to his heroics. Instead of execution for his crimes, he was exiled to Otholla III, a distant rim world.

Time had not been kind.

No matter his intentions, Megatron had taken his place in history as an exiled and legendary arch-villain. He was reviled by his people, but now, at the end of his life, more often than not he dreamed of Cybertron. Late in the evenings, when all was still and quiet, he found himself pondering taking a new face, a new form, and trying to start over.

It was a fond dream, but Megatron never acted on it. _I do not deserve a new beginning,_ and that was the truth, if only for the sheer number of lives cut short. _I remain here for the sake of peace_ , he often reminded himself, and that was enough.

Settling back down, Megatron struggled to obey his medic’s orders to rest. He slowed his vents and relaxed again for one last attempt at recharge. Slowly he closed his optics and settled. But this time there was an odd rush of wind around him. He flicked open a wary optic, then sat up straight.

For standing before him was _Starscream_.

“What the devil?” hissed Megatron, dropping his wounded pede to the floor. The rough handling was a mistake. He grunted in pain, but otherwise didn’t move.

_…Some sort of trick?_

“Hello, Glorious Leader,” and Starscream peered down at him with a smirk. He was wearing an ancient alt-mode, one long since abandoned. He was not the mechanism of Megatron's present. He was a shadow from the distant past, from back during the Great War.

Starscream's expression was most familiar and yet very wrong.

Long association with this particular mechanism and his moods meant Megatron was quick to pick up on the subtleties. Starscream's expression lacked the feeling behind the lift of his delicate lip plating.

“You managed to recover your old body, Starscream?” asked Megatron, feigning a friendly curiosity. His right servo offered a welcoming gesture, while the left fingered a hidden blaster. “I thought your frame was completely destroyed.”

Starscream watched him for a moment. Then he stepped back, lifting his servos in a placating gesture.

Megatron remained seated, but felt perplexed for the strange gracelessness of that gesture. _This cannot be Starscream,_ and he extended his EM fields to brush over the other mech. He suspected a trap of some kind. He tensed when he may as well have scanned over a desk or chair. EM fields reflected the emotions of the mechs emanating them, but it was as if Starscream had no fields at all. It was as if Starscream was but an empty mechanism, without a spark.

Megatron bristled, suspecting an attack, but none materialized. So far Starscream had made no threatening moves. So far no attack was forthcoming.

“Why can’t I feel you?” Megatron demanded. His plating clenched tight to his frame, preparing for violence. Motes of metal dust flecked off his armature, reflecting the afternoon light. They highlighted his advanced age.

From the corner of his optic, Megatron noted the evidence of his own weakness, but it meant little to him. If this would-be assassin thought him too weak to put up a fight, he was in for a hell of a surprise. But it seemed he had misjudged his visitor.

“Apologies,” said Starscream, though his words lacked all trace of emotion. “I am not Starscream … or at least, not the original.”

Megatron looked at him in askance, waiting for an explanation. His fingers never left the vicinity of his hidden blaster, but some of his tension bled away the longer Starscream spoke.

“I am a sentient holo-avatar. I was created by a science team on Cybertron. They were researching the possibilities of creating an army of holograms to serve in combat, instead of living Cybertronians. They designed a stable light field that would hold both shape and pattern and imbued it with mental patterns from old processor scans.”

“I … see,” murmured Megatron, though he really didn’t. “Why would they have picked _you_ of all mechs to test this on?”

“I was one of several that had usable mental scans already available. They did not actually intend to re-create me. They merely intended to test the projecting machinery, but there was an error.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you are here.”

“The project was cancelled because the projections do not last long enough to be useful for military purposes. I received permission to wander as I please, until my field destabilizes and I fade away. I have the memories of the original — to a point — and decided to look up my old comrades.”

“Mhn."

Megatron settled back in his chair and considered this new development. He was unsure what to say. Then a thought struck. "Tell me, do you have a spark chamber? Or are you only solid from your outer plating?”

“I am a full scan from the original Starscream. I _do_ have a spark chamber, but no spark within it.”

“Then you have Starscream's memories, but not his emotions. You lack the connections those memories would provide the real Starscream.”

"That is correct."

"I am unsure what you want from me," said Megatron as he spread his arms, his palms up and empty. He offered nothing … and yet there was a glint in his optics that hadn't been there before.

The holo-avatar didn’t notice his newfound interest. Its gaze was elsewhere and soulless optics grew unfocused, as if seeking someplace within. “I understand you have no knowledge of my functioning. I understand that you cannot prolong my existence. I have sought you out only because I wish to understand … what you meant to me when I was alive.”

 _I want to feel emotion,_ was the desire beneath the words. Megatron made a thoughtful sound. “Yes, perhaps I _can_ help you. Emotions originate from the spark within. If we were to provide you a spark, you would remember yourself more fully.”

“Yes,” exclaimed the holo-avatar Starscream as understanding dawned. “That is what I want! That is what I am looking for.”

“Starscream,” Megatron said, speaking more to himself then his guest. "The real Starscream, he would _love_ this. Just — wait one moment.”

Looking distracted, Megatron murmured “he should still be nearby” while pulling a small device out of his subspace. He tapped out a message, flagged it as deathly urgent, and sent it a moment later.

The holo-avatar tilted its helm in confusion. “What do you mean? Records show the original Starscream was murdered by revolutionaries attempting to overthrow the new government from within. They killed him and smelted his frame to hide their misdeeds.”

Megatron winced for the reminder. He didn’t answer at first and the moment went long, threatening to become awkward. Then Megatron smiled a tight little smile and waved off the mishap creation's question. “You are correct. Disregard my rambling, old friend. Now tell me. How many of our old comrades have you approached? Give me their names and tell me how they are, and what they have been doing. It has been so long since I have spoken with any of them — tell me everything.”

“I did a search for all names in Starscream’s memory. I inquired after the mechs he interacted with frequently enough to be useful. I comprised a list of all mechs I could approach for help.”

“A sound approach,” said Megatron, feeling a little annoyed for the rambling. “Now, how many have you spoken with? How are they?”

“You are the only one left functioning,” the holo-avatar replied. “I don’t have much time; a cycle at most. Will you help me?”

_The others are gone._

The thought was startling and Megatron’s face fell downcast. It shouldn’t be such a surprise, considering their ages. So many of his generation were junked, smelted, or rusting in forgotten crypts and coffins.

The original Starscream was one of the lost; murdered in a failed political coup. His disembodied spark was immortal though, and he continued to work within Cybertronian society. He could take over the weak minded of his race. He routinely used this ability to his advantage. He had grown so skilled at his new craft that the host bodies he overwhelmed usually didn’t even realize it. He moved them, used them, and then left them thinking they were responsible for all that had happened.

Starscream could move mechs into taking actions he desired and used his ability to help guild his race and keep them on the path of peace. He took his task seriously, and continued the work that he had begun near the end of his life as the ‘Chosen One’. _Perhaps this fate was what the metro-titan had actually meant…_ and then Megatron realized the holo-avatar was still waiting for a response.

“Yes, I will help you,” said Megatron. “Or at least, I have summoned one who can. He shouldn’t be long.”

Shortly after, a bright blue ball of light flashed into existence before them. The arrival startled the holo-avatar and provoked a smile to cross Megatron’s face. It was one of the last few he still possessed.

“This had better be good,” grumbled Starscream’s disembodied voice, floating out from the lightening-orb. He sounded every bit as excitable and irate as was his normal wont.

The holo-avatar Starscream stared at the glowing orb, entranced. The glowing sphere seemed to pulse where it floated, as if noticing the empty frame standing so enticingly before him.

Megatron’s hands dropped to his hips with a flourish as he greeted his beloved pit-spawned glitch. “Oh, I think you will find the journey well worth the trouble.”

“—what is this?!”

There was a flash as Starscream pounced. He took over the projection with haste, his free spark slipping into the open and ready chamber. There was a long moment spent breathing, blinking, and then his face grew rapturous.

“My body!” shrieked Starscream with sheerest joy. “You inglorious fiend! _How_ did you _manage_?!”

“Don’t get too excited,” and Megatron held up a cautioning hand. “This is only temporary. Apparently the result of some sort of cancelled experiment involving weaponized holo-emitters.”

“Weaponized holo-emitters,” repeated Starscream, looking no less delighted. He flexed his fingers and spread his wings. He watched them flit to and fro with the silliest smile on his face.

 “Something to look into for yourself,” said Megatron thoughtfully. _It has been eons since he’s looked so happy._ He knew Starscream longed for his own frame again. He also knew that every attempt to regain it had ended in failure. The most recent one had involved the Chaos Bringer himself, resulting in a failed bargain.

Unicron hadn’t appreciated being played for a fool. Starscream’s new body had gone up in smoke, right along with Unicron himself, as Starscream hadn't appreciated losing his new body.

“Indeed! I can actually _feel_ everything!” said Starscream, while inspecting his flexing wings. They were exactly as he remembered, and his spark pulsed merrily, however tempered by reality. “This isn’t a real frame, though.”

“No,” agreed Megatron with a certain, playful air. “But it _is_ solid.”   ... _solid enough for a little fun..._ was what he meant.

Starscream grinned at him, eyes wild.

 

*******

 

Megatron and Starscream’s relationship had always been stormy in life, but their connection survived even after death. True this holo-avatar wasn’t a real frame, but Starscream could still feel the other body beneath him, moving with him.

Megatron rolled them, perching Starscream atop him. Barely a last handful of careful movements and they both shuddered together, lifting and holding and gasping.

It had begun with earnest, this interface, but had quickly morphed into a softer moment. As much as Starscream enjoyed a harsh frag, there was something about being touched like this. It felt like being loved … cherished, even.

Starscream slumped over Megatron’s chest plate. He laid there, optics half-lidded, resting his helm as powerful fingers glided over his wings, tracing the sensitive edges.

Starscream relished Megatron’s touch, marveled at how much things had changed over the eons, that he would feel this way about this silver being that had been so much of a pain in his aft when he still lived.

“You don’t realize what you have until it is lost,” murmured Starscream into Megatron’s audial.

Starscream heard Megatron rumble. He felt Megatron’s arms tighten around him. But after a moment, he relaxed.

“I should go,” said Starscream.

Megatron managed to keep his disappointment out of his vocalizer as Starscream reluctantly began disentangling himself. He did little to help, and left his massive arms still wrapped around Starscream’s thin waist.

“I understand,” said Megatron, already missing his lover. “The use of this frame is an opportunity to further some of your endless schemes, isn’t it?”

“Oh indeed, yes.”

Starscream exhaled, delighted with the sensation of air moving though the projection’s ventilation systems. This was a chance to move around in his old, long lost frame. “I can’t let this opportunity go to waste.”

“Your schemes have only become more ambitious with time,” said Megatron, forever impressed with Starscream’s tenacity.

Starscream laughed at that. “And you have grown weak and sentimental, old mech.”

“Hmm.”

For a moment Megatron considered being offended. Then he shrugged and owned the insult, for it was true. Instead of being offended, he pulled Starscream closer. He wanted to remember this, and relished the feel of his capricious jet, the slide of their bodies.

Then Megatron pulled in a deep breath and succumbed to the inevitable. There was no caging Starscream’s ambitions — not then or now — and so Megatron reluctantly released his old lover.

“Go on then, you vicious glitch,” said Megatron, unable to keep the affection out of his voice. “Give them hell.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Starscream. And on his lips, as ever, there was a smirk.

 

*******

 

“How many times must we go through this?”

Megatron’s powerful voice thundered over the bloodied Othollan ground. “This city is under _my_ protection. If you venture here, you will follow _my_ rules.”

The Ejoornian raiders didn’t answer; they were too busy fleeing for their lives, and the ones that stayed behind did so only because they were too dead to do otherwise.

Megatron stuck a triumphant pose, his helm flung back. But his back was aching and his knees were creaking and he really needed to lie down after such exertion — before he fell down.

As the last of the raiders vanished into the badlands, Megatron relaxed his fierce pose and sagged into a more normal slump. He looked down at his dark servos. They were pitted with scars. His paint and plating were equally dim. Worse was the faint trembling along his fingers; he could no longer keep the tremors at bay.

_I feel so old._

Within him, Megatron could feel his spark faltering, flickering. It used to burn, used to flare, but those days were long gone. Now he moved carefully and no longer dared roar or boast, at least not to anyone that he wasn’t completely certain he could defeat.

Megatron had traded his noisy bluster and reckless aggression for cold silence and a strong reliance on his still-keen mind. His attacks were carefully planned and executed to minimize damage to himself.

So far it was enough.

“You would think they’d learn,” murmured Megatron to himself as he turned to leave, joints creaking and groaning. For this was not the first time he had sent these particular pirates packing. His small world in exile was too near the Eshem Nebula, which was inhabited by their aggressive species. They hadn’t always been marauders. They were once peaceful, but ever since they’d been driven from their home world of Ejoornus by the Quintessons, they were always hungry for supplies.

Megatron sighed, then tottered over and sat down on the stolen supply tram. He slid into the driver’s seat. It was still piled high with supplies stolen from Brokedown Town, the outermost outpost and spaceport (he smirked a little every time he called it that) in the sector.

Megatron turned the pack tram around, aiming it back towards town. It took the better part of an hour before the ponderous vehicle pulled into the station, to the cheers of the various species there.

Organics tended to stay away from Megatron, but the native metal races were friendly. They shouted his name and made many welcoming gestures as he drove towards the center of town, but he affected his most stoic expression.

This had happened so many times that Megatron was the town’s golden mech — their defender and official hero. They never failed to shower him with praise and adulation as time and time again, he saved their lives and livelihoods.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , thought Megatron to himself. _I don’t care. I do this for me, not them. Someday I will meet my match in battle, and fall._

Megatron often told himself that and at first his aims _had_ been selfish. He’d relished every chance to pit himself against the raiders and marauders. This was his end of choice; dying bravely in battle. So far, he’d always won, thanks to his Cybertronian durability.

But as Megatron’s new reputation as a defender took hold, so did the love of the populous and now he lived for these moments. He (secretly) basked in the love showered upon him. These metal races (and a few shy organics) were his sole source of companionship and meaning, and he relished every chance to protect them. Fortunately such attacks come frequently; the outer rim was a dangerous place.

“Thank you, protector!”

“You’ve saved us!”

The grateful aliens swarmed the tram as Megatron parked it and disembarked. Then they clustered around him, shouting and cheering, and some of the females even lifted their young ones up to touch his plating.

Megatron flushed.

 _Enough of this,_ thought Megatron, truly embarrassed. _Time to go home._

“See that these supplies are returned to their rightful owners,” said Megatron to the local constable. “I will know if anything goes awry.”

That was a threat, but a needed one. Megatron loomed over the sullen officer, cowing him with a firm stare. He was well aware the so-called authorities were as corrupt as they were cowardly. They were not above some thievery of their own.

Megatron also knew they would not dare cross him.

Out here, _he_ was the law.

 

*******

 

Home was a ragged-looking shack.

The place was utterly spartan, with only a table, a few chairs and a berth. A few rough-looking weapons adorned the walls, taken from the Ejoornians he’d defeated in past battles.

To the side was a stack of ornaments and vid-pads and other small items, carelessly thrown in a corner. Knickknacks and other useless rubbish — intended as gifts — were routinely left outside of his abode by the various aliens he protected, but he ignored them.

Walking past the mess, Megatron tapped a hidden panel and stood back as a panel on the floor slid open. He stepped down and into his real home, hidden below.

When Megatron was first exiled, no small number of Cybertronians had shown up to attack him, intent on settling old scores. Some of them he’d killed in self-defense, but some just wanted to yell at him; especially those that had suffered in his hellish prisons.

Those mechs and their rages Megatron endured, until he couldn’t bear their pain any longer. Then he hid from them, digging out the second, sunken room, feeling a coward. All of those mechs keen to visit him were affected by the ravages of time just as he was. Their numbers dwindled and then finally faded away, until he’d not received a visit from his own kind for many, many vorns.

One of his last few visitors to land on his doorstep was a newly built journalist. The crass youngster had wanted to interview him for an edgy story — wanted all the goriest details — and had been sent away by a frosty Megatron.

Megatron strode into his abode and then hesitated. The short range comm was blinking. It was requesting a communication line with him. The line was coded to the local clinic. With a frown, he opened the message.

It was non-verbal.

_Great Protector,_

_Greetings from the staff at Otho Medical Clinic._

_We are grateful for your intervention during the last raid. The medical supplies you recovered have saved many lives._

_We wish to implore you to return as we need to run further scans. As we have advised you, Cybercrosis is a serious illness and must be treated immediately. The longer you delay, the more difficult it will be for a mech of your age to recover._

_We still need permission to release your medical records to Cybertron, to request for further medical aid on your behalf. Your people will surely send a medical ship to aid you, but the longer the delay, the worse your condition will become._

 

Megatron frowned at the greeting. He noted it was signed by the chief medical officer of the small medical clinic he had protected innumerous times from attack.

With a groan, Megatron closed the message. It was nothing new. He had been diagnosed with Cybercrosis some time ago, but refused to allow the clinic medics to report his condition to Cybertron. The treatment was invasive and he didn’t want to suffer through it at the hands of the Cybertronian medics.

Megatron knew he was growing weaker, but treatment would leave him an enfeebled wreck for a long time. Even worse, there was a chance he might never regain any real strength. That would be the end of his role as defender of his home-in-exile, which was a sort of death anyway.

 _I refuse to deactivate in a medical berth! I refuse,_ thought Megatron, and his fingers clenched. Fortunately (and unfortunately) Cybercrosis was a slow disease. It took a long time to kill a mech and so he felt he could delay the inevitable for a while longer.

He hadn’t yet worked up the desire to ask the alien mechanicals to treat him instead. It didn’t help that he was worried Cybertron would refuse to allow them to administer the medication he needed to survive. Then the medical ship would arrive for him, for sure.

 _I have to deal with this eventually. But it can wait until the trade season is over. There are too many attacks on the merchants for me to be laid up right now,_ and the thought of delaying felt good to him.

He deleted the message.

 

*******

 

The sunset that evening burned red and blue.

It reminded Megatron of someone he hadn’t seen in countless vorns. Someone he never spoke to, but could never truly forget. _Where are you now, Optimus Prime? Do you ever think of me, as I do of you? Have you found some measure of peace, as I have?_

Megatron watched the sun slowly dip down behind the horizon, turning the sky the color of bruised metal; the color of defeat and ruin. That too reminded him of his old rival.

Optimus Prime had been misled and miscounseled by the Mistress of Flame, the spiritual leader of Caminus. Due to her secretly malevolent intentions, Optimus Prime had marched down a path of conquest, with disastrous consequences. One small war later and Optimus was also exiled — as part of a peace treaty signed with the furious human race.

Optimus Prime was sentenced to exile on Genos, another rim world, though the stain upon him was not nearly so terrible. He remained beloved by his Autobots. He had remained an influence on Cybertron for a long time after, though his exile had never been lifted thanks to the new ruling body of Cybertron.

The Council of Cybertron was concerned he might usurp their power, and because the people of Cybertron prospered — and likely due to lingering guilt — Optimus Prime had never sought amnesty for himself.

 _We are not so different_ , thought Megatron with some small amount of satisfaction. He sometimes found himself thinking of Prime, especially during the long, quiet evenings, but the glory days were long gone.

As the last of the sunset faded away and the dark loomed oppressive, Megatron retreated back into his shack. He locked and barred all the doors and then retreated further, down into his secret room to recharge.

The next morning brought a knock to his door. Megatron answered it cautiously, and then accepted a small parcel with a nod of thanks for the dour-faced alien — which was normal as Brakels were always dour-looking due to their lack of facial expressions — and then closed the door.

Deliveries were rare and always interesting. Megatron took his time opening this one. He was wary as usual, but the little data-pad was genuine. It was from Cybertron and his spark skipped a beat as he read the opening greeting.

_Yes!_

Megatron’s optics flared. Their light brightened the room, matching the joyful pulse of his spark. It was always exciting, receiving these letters. They were the highlight of his existence. His fingers were shaking, though it was more from excitement then from his Cybercrosis. His short story had been accepted by the Cybertronian Literary Brigade, a prestigious group of his fellow authors!

Megatron read the data pad again and again. He savored each and every word, even though the opening greeting was not addressed to him, but to his pen name. It didn’t dampen Megatron’s enthusiasm one iota that the mech who had penned this letter had no idea of his true identity.

In fact, Megatron had several monikers; several different personas that he used to secretly interact with his people. He had resorted to such to avoid the intense hate and prejudice that his true name would bring. It had been this way for some time. Originally Megatron had tried to join the literacy community under his own name, but was routinely rejected and banned. He’d understood why. He knew he deserved every bit of scorn for his crimes, but the rejection still festered.

For a long, long time Megatron abandoned his people in return. He gave up on writing and focused on making his planet of exile to a safer place to live, purely for his own benefit. He threw himself at the marauders and pirates in the hopes of meeting his end and abandoned his primary passion: writing.

Then one day everything changed.

A Karkan showed up with one of his poetry works. It asked for his signature and wanted to clarify what some of his stanzas meant; there was an intense debate among several literary societies on Karkas III regarding some of his older poetry.

Megatron was shocked to learn that they were debating … enjoying … his works. Something in his spark eased. He ended up cautiously invited the alien mech in and spoke to him at length.

It turned out that someone from Cybertron had sent his poetry — banned and otherwise shunned by Cybertron — to the Karkan Literary Society as a mean-spirited joke. Megatron held a reputation for hating alien races, and so was hated in return. It was well-deserved for the sheer scope of his terrible crimes and the prankster must have assumed the Karkans would have been most offended. But unlike Cybertronians, most alien species did not have long, long lives and memories spanning eons. As time had passed, many alien races forgave and forgot the past (but mostly just forgot) as their lives continued generation after generation.

And so when the Karkan had arrived at his door, Megatron was stunned for the simple acceptance he received. He ended up having a long, pleasant conversation with the engaging young alien. One signature later, and he closed the door after his visitor with a smile on his face.

Then Megatron pulled out his old data pads. Fingers poised over the keys, his spark had leapt and his mind began to churn and he started writing again. With some hesitation, he dared send a small sampling of his new works to the Cybertronian Poetry League.

Megatron was disappointed — but not surprised — when he received a brisk rejection letter in reply. Cybertron had neither forgiven nor forgotten, and that was that.

Or not.

Because this time, Megatron chose to fall back to his treachery. Creating a new moniker, he sent a new group of works, and this time his efforts were accepted.

The gushing approval of Megatron’s new agent had both charmed and infuriated him, and his works under his new name hit the literary world by storm. Under that name, he quickly found a respectable following for himself, and expanded his interests from poetry to longer works. He took care to keep several shadow names for himself, so that if one was uncovered, he wouldn’t lose everything.

Several monikers later (one for non-fiction, another for short stories, and a third for longer works) and Megatron found the acceptance he longed for from his people.

It was not ideal, but still it was something.

In the literary world, Megatron found some semblance of redemption for himself and over time the sting of rejection eased. He shared ideas and concepts for the betterment of society, focusing on non-violent means of change, and in doing so gave back all he could to the society he had so utterly wronged.

Renewed in a spiritual sense, Megatron threw himself whole-heartedly back into his passion for writing.

“And you thought I had nothing to contribute,” said Megatron, speaking to the signature on the letter. It was signed by a mech he recognized; one that had unerringly refused all of his works under his real name.

“Oh, if you only knew.”

 

*******

 

_Pirates never learn._

The attack had come early in the morning and Megatron had met the pirate captain head on. And it wasn’t as if Megatron hadn’t been clear. Piles of alien heads still sat all forlorn at the landing sites and waypoints; trophies from his previous defenses of the local outpost.

This new pack of pirates had tried to overrun Breakdown Town directly. Foolishly they’d tried to take his home from him. They’d tried to claim his domain, his kingdom.

_Mine._

“This world is under my protection,” Megatron repeated, over and over again. His internal weapons blazed, his optics glowing red in the gun-smoke haze.

Now some of the pirate’s heads were leaking out, flung atop the ever-growing piles. Megatron could only hope that this time the fools took his warning to heart, and returned to his shack to rest.

Evening fell.

Megatron retired back to his favorite spot. It was a rough metal table, both pitted and pocked. He propped his sore pede up on a chair and soon his aching struts were all but forgotten. This was his preferred place to write. He lit a crude lantern when the dark began to encroach, the shadows held at bay by the flickering light.

The dance of light and dark set a certain mood. Thus inspired, Megatron pulled out his longer story; an epic fiction novel. He was making good progress, fussing over a particularly difficult paragraph, when his long range communicator beeped at him.

_What?_

Megatron stared at the small device, simultaneously surprised and annoyed; the former for the contact, and the latter for the critical loss of focus. He hated being interrupted while writing.

_Who would contact me?_

Megatron tapped at the device. He checked the ID tag and scowled. It was official correspondence from Cybertron and had the official look of a government communiqué.

“Oh, what do you want now?”

Megatron scowled down at the blinking panel as if it was poisonous. He didn’t even want to open it as any face-to-face interactions with his fellow Cybertronians tended to be unpleasant.

As a part of his exile, Cybertron was supposed to keep tabs on him. They were charged with making sure he didn’t leave the planet for any reason. They were also supposed to provide medical care and energon for him, which the medical community seemed loath to do.

_I already waived the annual medical inspections. I signed everything. I give them no trouble — no reason to contact me. What could they possibly want with me?_

Megatron’s frown grew deep and lingering. The government representatives were bad enough, but the medics were much worse. They were unprofessional to an unacceptable degree. It was so bad that he’d taken to showing up to the local Othollan clinic when he was injured, or in need of maintenance — anything that he couldn’t take care of himself.

And so Megatron answered the comm with a barely concealed grumble, his expression cold and foreboding. There was a click as the line connected. Then Megatron’s expression went from cold to incredulous.

“Greetings, Designation: Megatron. This is an automated recording regarding a matter of importance, please listen to this message in its entirety and indicate you have completed the following instructions by—”

 _Not even the courtesy of speaking to a live Cybertronian…_ except that thought was more a relief until the bored-sounding recording turned his life upside-down. It informed Megatron he was to be transferred to Genos at the end of the vorn, which was a mere week away.

Megatron’s plating flared for his upset, hinges creaking noisily. Metal dust puffed into the air in faint clouds. He had grown attached to his home in exile. For all that he ignored them some of the mechanicals had endeared themselves to him.

 _I don’t want to leave._  Now his fingers were shaking and not only for his Cybercrosis. _This is my home now. If not Cybertron, then I would be nowhere else._ Not to mention Genos was an inner rimworld. They did not have the problems that Otholla III suffered from pirates and marauders.

Genos was downright boring, actually.

Megatron’s plating clenched down in something approaching a decent panic. Then he hurriedly tapped out a protest and sent it to the wardens, those mechs charged with making sure he never caused anyone a problem ever again.

Shortly after, another communication arrived. It was comprised of one sentence.

“Request is denied.”

*******

 

Optimus Prime was bored.

There was nothing much to do on Genos. Oh, there were plenty of people that called Genos home, but no Cybertronians like himself. Even worse, there were absolutely no attacks, marauders, pirates, or anything else that could provide some entertainment or purpose.

Optimus Prime was a battle-hardened warbuild, but there was no warring to be found. Instead the long, peaceful days were spent reading, wandering around, and volunteering.

At first Optimus had tried to ingrain himself to the local police force, offering his services as a protector. He even tried to apply, but he was summarily rejected. Cybertronians had a _reputation_ and no amount of good deeds could convince the local law enforcement to allow him to help track down and bring criminals to justice.

For a time Optimus resorted to vigilantism to fulfill his need to protect and serve. Patrolling and defending the innocent had been exciting and fulfilling, but due to his distinct coloring and race, law enforcement quickly got wind of his efforts. They summarily dropped a hammer on his attempts to protect the areas around his apartment home. That was a bitter day, but the truth was they were right.

Optimus Prime, the former Leader of the Autobots, was not actually needed.

Genos was a peaceful world. It served a safe and comfortable retirement community for older mechanisms of various species and lived up to its reputation as the perfect home. This world was specifically chosen by his Autobots to be a place of rest and comfort and relaxation for their beloved leader.

Although Optimus was exiled, he was still beloved. None of his Autobots had agreed with his exile, but he had accepted his punishment with grace, understanding that lasting peace between the humans of energy-rich Earth and Cybertron meant he had to accept his fate.

Genos was a lovely world, and Optimus knew he was lucky his ‘punishment’ was so lenient. And yet over time living on this world did become an unintended torture. More so as slowly and surely his Autobots — still in the service of defending Cybertron — were gradually deactivated by the ravages of time and the rigors of defending their home world.

For a long time Optimus received a steady stream of visitors until time had claimed them all. Then, imprisoned as Optimus was in this world of near-perfect safety, only _he_ lingered on.

Optimus received exemplary medical care from Cybertron. It helped that he never missed an appointment or annual physical. There was also the matter that he’d taken to reporting every single minor ache or ill, simply for loneliness. He deeply enjoyed the interactions with the friendly Cybertronian medics, and chatting with them was the highlight of his long, lonely days.

So when the announcement came through his long range communicator that Megatron was being transferred to Genos, perhaps Optimus could be forgiven for being so excited his fuel pump stuttered and he nearly fainted.

 _I hope he starts something_ , was Optimus’ most prevailing thought as he tottered into action, leaving little trails of metal dust behind him as he feverishly fortified his tiny apartment against invasion. He rummaged through every nook and cranny of his subspace, searching for anything useful. He even dug out his old blaster, hidden away for an emergency that had never come.

After hammering metal planks over the windows of his lovely suite, Optimus stood back and surveyed his work. His hands drew into fists and clunked down to his hips. Then he nodded, satisfied. His efforts had turned his apartment into a fortified bunker of sorts. It wasn’t much in the way of protection, but it would give him a few moments warning when Megatron arrived.

Which would hopefully be soon, because Optimus Prime missed battle like a caged bird missed the sky.

_I am ready, old enemy._

_Come and face me._

_I am ready._

*******

 

 _It is too clean_.

Megatron stepped off the passenger shuttle and into the landing bay of the low budget interstellar passenger service he’d been assigned to.

Genos was welcoming; a temperate, heavily forested world filled with calm beauty and balmy breezes. He was fortunate that this was a silicon-based world and not organic, for that meant the native creatures were a mix of silica and living-metal species. He was relieved he would not be encountering many drippy, meat-sack-type creatures.

So at least that was something.

The city itself was large and towering, but far too clean for his tastes. It felt antiseptic, even. He couldn’t see a single spot of grunge anywhere. Cleaning drones bustled here and there, resulting in not one piece of trash outside of a receptacle, and every surface shown bright and clean and cheerful.

 _Too clean,_ and Megatron despaired.

_This is the sort of place you move to when your joints no longer work. This is where you come so that when you hobble about, everyone casts you kindly glances and tries to help you across the street. No action, no adventure, no struggles. There is no chance to feel alive. I will rust and die here._

Megatron moved through the landing terminal. Everywhere he went, he caught attention. Aliens eyed him warily and moved out of his way. They watched his every movement. Optics, eyes, eyestalks, multi-segmented visual organs, all followed after him, making him uncomfortable. He was an old warbuild and used to being either accepted or ignored by the people around him. He hadn’t realized how comfortable he’d grown with his home on Otholla.

Megatron knew Optimus Prime was around somewhere, but he had no idea where. He didn’t bother to look for him or try to contact him as there was no reason to believe that his old enemy would be interested in talking with him. Especially since the few times he’d tried to contact Optimus, he’d been outright ignored.

It had hurt at the time.

Megatron and Optimus had almost been on friendly terms during his defection to the Autobots. So many years of Prime’s shunning silence had been another painful rejection in a long line of them. He had resolved to stop thinking of Prime. He’d taken his hurt out on the marauders instead, until the pain had eased at long last.

Megatron traveled through the city, moving slowly. He became suspicious when he left the nicer areas, following a predetermined route. As he traveled, the buildings become more and more decrepit. He noted the dwellers were fewer and downtrodden. _I suppose that is to be expected. Of course my wardens picked the worst, cheapest area they could find for me._

He _was_ in exile after all.

Finally Megatron stopped in front of a building, and squinted at the signage. It has been recently condemned. He checked the address, checked it again, and sighed. The sound came from deep inside, rumbling out from his engine.

 _This is definitely the place,_ or at least the location was correct. The place he’d been assigned to as an apartment no longer existed.

He was homeless.

Fortunately, he was not penniless. His literary works had been giving him generous returns, and he still owned several secret accounts hidden away during the Great War. They were little used as flaunting that he had credits would be dangerous.

And anyway, Megatron had little interest in possessions.

Megatron valued his privacy, quiet for his writing, and having enemies to pound into scrap. There were none of these things here, and so he left the city behind. He turned his back on Genosian society and left, stomping his way out into the closest wilderness. He had a long range scanner built into his systems. After several hours of scouting, he found a likely spot for a new abode.

Megatron cleared a small area and marked out the walls for a shack, one similar to his home on the rim world. Then he subspaced a digging tool and started excavating. His joints protested. His back strut creaked. And though he was never one to shrink away from hard work, it was still slow, slow work. He had to stop and rest frequently. But he refused to yield to his aches and pains.

Toiling long and hard, Megatron moved mountains of dirt to open up space for a subterranean bunker. He wanted most of his shelter underground as he felt he needed that extra bit of protection. Most of his real enemies were rusting in the trash bin of history, but old habits die hard.

Several times Megatron stopped, his instincts prickled. He looked around, his plating flared. At times he felt certain there were optics upon him. Yet, careful scans of the area and the horizon did not reveal any watchers.

Megatron frowned.

He had felt reasonably safe on Otholla. He knew the people, knew the terrain, and knew his opponents. Now all of that was gone. But this new uncertainty wasn’t the worst of this upheaval. He’d never trusted others, not really. But certain people were more tolerable than others, and those he allowed stand closer to him. Those he spoke to regularly and sometimes — _sometimes_ — laughed with. It was those acquaintances he found himself dearly missing; the medics at the Otholla clinic, the loving couple that insisted on delivering energon goodies to him every 7 th cycle, even the surly constable he so enjoyed threatening.

They were gone from his life, and Megatron found himself grieving them like he never did anymore.

Another hint of movement in the trees. Megatron squinted, but there was nothing there.

He went back to digging.

 

***

 

Days later, and Megatron was saltier than an ocean for the upheaval to his life.

In desperation he even sent an awkward, embarrassed, but sincere message to Starscream in the hopes that he could do something. Other than that, he was stuck for it, and so stayed far away from the city in protest. He only returned for supplies, and then only for brief periods of time.

Megatron returned to the city on one such trip, approaching only with caution. He was relieved to stumble across a junk yard on the outskirts of it, run by an organic brain-blob of a species called an Ethosian.

The Ethosian had one eye and translucent skin. Sickening-looking internal organs were on display, gurgling and pulsing. Long tentacles dangled from the bulbous head, and twitched and writhed beneath it.

Megatron blinked at the sight. He recoiled at first, repulsed. Then he frowned and then cautiously approached the alarming alien. “Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”

“I am,” the Ethosian gurgled at him cheerfully. “What may I help you with, friend Cybertronian?”

The Ethosian, while grotesque to Megatron’s optics, was in fact a friendly and gregarious creature. It burbled and chortled and offered good prices to its new customer.

Optimus Prime and Megatron had once teamed up to aid the Ethosians, preventing the genocide of their race. Prime had done so out of the good of his spark while Megatron had helped as part of an agreement only, but to the Ethosians the Cybertronians were rescuers, and well liked.

The Junker didn’t know the silver mech in front of him was the same being from the old stories that had saved their world and people.  Regardless, he did his ancestors proud. Soon Megatron’s nervous plating smoothed to his protoform. The longer he interacted with the honestly friendly alien, the more he relaxed.

It was just as well that they got along, as the junkyard was a goldmine of useful supplies. Megatron started by purchasing metal panels, walling, and anything else that would be useful for a base structure. He had to pace himself, as building was exhausting work and his joints and plating were barely up to the task. He had to stop frequently to rest his frame and his aching limbs.

The next afternoon Megatron returned to purchase an old welder and started hauling metal in bulk while continuing to construct his new home. He returned to his private clearing in the forest loaded down with all sorts of useful scrap and got to work.

First the outer structure took shape. Then the metal walls of the bunker below, a large and spacious area. Then Megatron enclosed it over, and built the shack above it.

Some days later, Megatron affixed the last panel and stepped back. He looked over his shelter, immensely pleased with himself. It was in the shape of an old Decepticon defensive bunker, a structure he had helped build millions of times during the Great War.

_Perhaps now I will sleep soundly._

_Yes, this will do nicely._

 

*******

 

One day later and Megatron was sitting outside under the open sky.

He was resting on a metal chair much like the one he’d left behind on Otholla. There was a data pad in his servos and he was typing furiously, so furiously that his denta glinted in the sunlight, blunt and bared.

“—unacceptable and untenable. I demand that my transfer be reconsidered and rescinded. Rest assured that I intend to follow up and take this complaint as far and as high as I need to—”

Megatron muttered aloud as he typed. So far he’d heard nothing from Starscream, and so was attempting to take matters into his own servos. He was busy composing a harshly-worded complaint about his removal from Otholla III, but a sudden flash of red and blue on the ridge to the east gave him pause.

Megatron froze mid-rant and sat straighter. He peered into the forest. His red eyes scanned the gloomy depths intently. Sure enough, there _was_ a stranger out there; one that ducked down when spotted.

_Confirmation at last…_

For all this time Megatron’s instincts had been screaming that he was being spied on. It was a confirmation long in the coming as his old optics and rickety internal scanners were not up to the task of actually locating said watcher.

It had started shortly after Megatron had left the city to begin construction on his bunker … a prickling feeling up his spinal strut. He’d frequently stopped and peered into the towering forests surrounding his bunker. The misty undergrowth had always been empty.

_Where are you? Come out, come out, you miserable spy. What do you want from me? Do you intend to attack? If so, soon you will learn that I am not so weak as to be helpless._

But this time Megatron’s watcher changed position too soon. The watcher quickly disappeared amidst the trees, but it was too late and Megatron finally caught sight of his stalker.

 _Optimus Prime_.

Megatron snorted disparagingly and returned to his typing. _See how you enjoy being so utterly ignored, old enemy …_ and he wasn’t doing anything wrong, dammit! He knew that Optimus Prime wouldn’t attack first, which meant he wasn’t going to be attacked at all.

Optimus Prime was funny that way.

Anyway, Megatron had bigger fish to fry. He was well displeased with his new home. He’d been horrified to confirm that Genos was an amazingly peaceful world with no chance for him to bloody his fists. There were too many people, and not enough action.

The peace and quiet was simply intolerable.

And while Megatron didn’t like to admit it, in truth he was worried about Brokedown Town. Sometimes the pirates attacked almost daily during the height of the trade season.

The next wave of trade ships would be due on Otholla in a half vorn, and Megatron was determined to return in time to defend what he now considered to be _his_ planet. There were several mechanicals that he was particularly worried about — they would not fare well without him.

Megatron sent his formal complaint to his wardens on Cybertron with a scowl, along with a copy to the politician he knew Starscream was currently controlling. With luck, his ancient lover would see fit to intervene on his behalf. _Or he’ll just laugh himself silly at my predicament …_ and with Starscream one never knew. His unpredictability was part of his relentless appeal.

With a _beep_ , Megatron’s protest was on its way and gone, and so too his excuse to rest his frame. And so he climbed out of his chair — joints creaking and groaning — and returned to his construction efforts. Technically the structure was already complete, but he still didn't feel safe and so continued to add more and more layers. 

 _It almost seems a waste of time to build a home when I plan on leaving as soon as possible,_ but he disregarded that thought. _Not that there is anything else I desire to do on this wretchedly peaceful planet anyway._

Though Megatron planned to be back at Otholla III in short order, in the meantime he needed a safe place to recharge. It was his driving motivation, and so he continued his efforts to fortify his new bunker.

After all, he had to recharge _somewhere_.

Once the walls were reinforced with yet another layer of metal plating, Megatron started working on fortifying the ceiling. As he worked, he deliberately kept his back towards where he’d last seen Optimus Prime.

Megatron was alert and wary. His hands ached, creaked, and complained for the strain, but he shouldered on. He wasn’t about to let either Optimus Prime or old age slow him down.

Much.

Megatron still had to sit a few times to let his fluids flow back into his lines. His old fuel pump still worked within acceptable parameters for a mechanism of his great age, he’d been assured some time ago. The medics hadn’t wanted to give him a new one. No amount of complaining had helped, and so he’d made do with what he had.

Hauling himself back to his pedes, Megatron went back to work and slowly the distinct structure came further into shape. It was a blast from the past and did much to warm his spark. He leaned back and considered. _Some of the trees obstruct my field of vision in some areas. I should clear them out, or at least the nearest ones._ _  
_

And once again, there was a flash of blue and red at the tree-line.

 _Really Prime_?

And Megatron found himself amused, but also annoyed. _My old enemy must be dreadfully bored to waste time watching me totter about and build a shelter for myself. What shall he think when I begin construction on my kiln?_

Megatron imagined Optimus Prime’s helm exploding when his fiendish construction turned out to be a mere trash-burning oven. It almost made him laugh aloud.

It wasn’t the first time, either. Several times Megatron considered turning around and laughing manically or rubbing his servos together gleefully as if he actually _was_ up to something. He almost did it, but stopped short. He was too damned old for such foolishness. Instead he just worked harder on his bunker as Optimus Prime continued to skulk about in the tree line, insisting on monitoring him for any nefariousness.

Finally Megatron finished his abode. It was surely the slowest structure he’d ever erected … and only a last few touches remained. Leaving his new home behind, he drove back to the Junker’s lot, a few hours’ drive away.

Digging through the piles of junkyard dreck, Megatron found an acceptable table, some mismatched chairs, and a thick panel that would serve as a meager berth.

Returning to his secluded bunker, Megatron could tell by the large prime-prints in the sand around his abode that Optimus Prime had rifled through his things while he was gone. No doubt to gain some inkling as to what he was up to.

This time Megatron gave in to base urges. “You will never see me coming Prime!” he roared out at the forest line, satisfied when a dark shadow jolted in the recesses, charging a few paces towards him.

“Never!”

Then Megatron closed his new door with a _WHAM_ and he heard the sound echo out to the trees. Then he sat down with satisfied smirk, his joints all a-creaking for his haste.

 _I shouldn’t have done it_ , _but by Primus was that satisfying._

After setting a small blaster down on the table next to him, Megatron resolved that he _would_ shoot if Prime dared be so rude as to peek into his crudely cut viewing portholes.

_Serves you right, Prime!_

 

*******

 

It was the morning after, and Megatron was sitting in his crude chair. His pedes were crossed and he was pouring over his precious data pads. All sorts of archival links and bookfiles were spread out in front of him.

Megatron had received a response. It was another bored-sounding message that rejected his furious request to be returned to Otholla out of hand. The bastards had listed medical costs as the reason for transferring him, which was absolutely infuriating.

 _That is a load of slag_ , and Megatron’s dusty plating lifted off his frame for his ire. His plating clattered for a moment, a faint cloud of dust puffing up when it clamped back to his frame.

Due to maltreatment, Megatron had cancelled his annual medical visits. It was to the point that Cybertron had ceased sending a medical ship for his care, and he had worked out a reasonable agreement with the local clinic. Many times he had defended them from pirate raids and always received good treatment and care from the staff there, unlike the Cybertronian medics.

It _was_ true that Cybertron reimbursed the Otholla Clinic for his care, and for a moment Megatron worried that perhaps his Cybercrosis treatment was deemed too expensive, then he remembered that his wardens should still be unaware of his condition. That left only his normal medical visits, which were few. He was seen only semi-frequently due to injuries in defense of the outpost and surrounding settlements, and he couldn't imagine the costs were that steep. Bottom line, his relocation to Genos was simply unacceptable.

Still nothing from Starscream, alas.

 _I will go back myself, no matter what they say._ _If I cannot force these wretches to transfer me back to Otholla, I will book my own passage and go. Let them try and dump me into a prison cell for breaking exile._

Then Megatron’s long range comm pinged with updates. He tapped the screen and his plating flared for excitement when the first update was in regards to his longer works moniker. His manuscript for a play — his first play! — had been published, and was receiving positive reviews.

It was even being considered for enactment by a lower level acting troupe in New Praxus. They were a small group with access to a small classical theater, but everyone had to start somewhere, and Megatron was still thrilled.

But the second communication drowned the elation of the first. First his optics darkened, and then a sick frown spread across his face plates. It was a medical summons to an annual checkup — the one he had already cancelled. Even worse, there was a short mention of his condition, and that was confirmation that they had gotten wind of his illness.

 _Bah,_ and Megatron sent a notice of cancellation in return, even knowing it wasn't going to be accepted. He was willing to delay as long as possible. _I would rather rust then let you fools paw at me._

He was feeling queasy at the thought of venturing back onto a medical ship and so ventured outside to settle his circuits. There was still plenty of work to keep him occupied. He set himself to clearing the thick brush and burning it in his crude, hand-made kiln, using the weak metal it smelted to shore up his little bunker.

“Megatron!”

Megatron recognized _that_ voice instantly. Slowly he turned and stared over his shoulder, back towards the misty woods.

Optimus Prime was standing openly in the distance. Apparently he’d grown tired of waiting. He wanted his old enemy to know he was ready for him, fully prepared to throw himself in harm’s way to defend the good people of Genos.

Optimus Prime stared down his old enemy from the tree-line. His blue eyes burned with intensity and he tapped at the side of his helm. _I am watching you._

Megatron snorted.

Once again Megatron considered giving Prime a show of some sort. He straightened a bit, and cracked his knuckles. But soon he abandoned the notion; he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t tarnish his dignity.

Instead, Megatron shuffled around and turned his back. It was an old Decepticon insult, a clear way of explaining just how little he thought of the watcher’s skill as a warrior.

It wasn’t true.

Megatron had nothing but respect for the strength that Optimus Prime could bring to bear, but that was neither here nor there. They were both old mechanisms, well past the point of such tomfoolery, and most of all _he wasn’t doing anything wrong._ And so he continued to gather brush. He still wasn’t worried about an attack; he knew Optimus wouldn’t harm him without provocation. _I will be out of your space soon, old enemy._ _It wasn’t my idea to be forced here in the first place._

Megatron worked in silence for a long time, digging, cutting, clearing. He picked up a stack of rubbish; a thick pile of metal leaves and branches. Then he turned to walk over to the guttering, half-sunken kiln…

…only to stop dead in this tracks.

Optimus Prime was standing before him. He had abandoned his sneaky spot in the forest undergrowth. His hands lay proud on his hip struts. He looked eager. His dusty old plating was flared and his fists were clenched. He hunched down as if he expected to be attacked on the spot, and in his right hand he held his old blaster, pointed off to the side, but ready to be brandished in a hurry.

Megatron squinted at it. He doubted the damned thing even worked anymore. His lips quirked while deciding what to do about the excitable Prime standing between him and his damned kiln.

Attacking Optimus Prime never crossed Megatron’s mind. He sensed that Prime would welcome a brutal scrap like in the old days, and further, Megatron could tell that Prime was deathly serious.

For Optimus Prime’s part, he would absolutely welcome a decent fight or a decent _anything_ , really. He was bored and intensely lonely. He couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. He wanted to interact with his old enemy and so now he was forcing the issue.

“You have been busy,” and it was Optimus who spoke first, breaking the ice. “It seems we are to be at odds once again.” His tone was firm and respectful as always, even as he looked over the military bunker that had come into existence over the last week.

“I am still busy,” Megatron grumbled. “And I’m not actually planning anything. I’ve left that life behind me. Now leave me in peace, Prime. I am too old for such nonsense.”

Grunting for the effort, Megatron trundled around the stern Optimus and dumped the heavy refuse into the kiln for destruction. He wiped his hands clean and went back for more.

“I am no longer a Prime,” corrected Optimus, following his every move. “I was stripped of my rank and have long since stepped down. I live here in peace.”

Megatron made no reply, uninterested. He returned to knocking over small saplings, ripping them out by the roots. He wanted a nice, clear area around his small personal bunker so as to better see any enemies coming. He knew that as close as he was to Cybertron, there may be a good chance he will start receiving disgruntled visitors again. He was not looking forward to it and intended to be prepared.

“I was worried when I heard you were being relocated here,” Optimus continued, as his plating flared a tiny bit. “I want you to know that spreading trouble will not be tolerated. These people are under my protection.”

It wasn’t true though. 

Optimus had been absolutely delighted to hear his old adversary had been transferred. Ecstatic, even. He’d counted down the days, and then waited in an oil café across from where Megatron’s assigned apartment was supposed to be. He’d noted the demolished building, and assumed it was a front for some nefarious plan. But he had been surprised when Megatron had immediately left the building. He hadn’t known what to make of Megatron’s dejected stance and then determined frown.

Optimus had trailed after his old enemy, following behind and staying out of sight. He had been concerned and thrilled when Megatron had relocated himself out into the surrounding wilderness. Even more so when Megatron began constructing what was obviously an old-style Decepticon bunker.

_Proof Megatron was up to his old ways!_

_Oh joy and happiness!_

Optimus had spent several days carefully mapping it out as it took shape. He watched as it came into being under the old, heavy servos of his most dangerous enemy. He took notes, needing to be ready in case he had to storm it and stop whatever aggressive take over plans Megatron may have.

_Probably had?_

_Had to have._

“If you plan to start trouble, know that I will be here to stop you.” Optimus sounded firm, resolved. “I will _always_ stop you.”

Optimus Prime clenched his fists and set his pedes and waited for the reply. Blue optics flashed in excitement. It was the first real emotion he had felt beyond the empty, day-to-day dullness of easy existence.

Megatron just blinked at him.

And sighed.

*******

 

Megatron sat down to a piping hot cup of energon that evening.

He was a little less alone then he normally was. He was certain that Optimus Prime was still skulking in the bushes somewhere, committing unholy murder on his poor, creaky joints. The thought made him smile as he opened his messaging program.

But Megatron’s smile vanished without a trace when he opened a message from Otholla Clinic. They regretfully confirmed they’d forwarded his private medical records to Cybertron. They assured him that it was something they were required to do for continuity of care now that he was off-world.

 _That is how Cybertron was made aware of my Cybercrosis_. It explained much. So did the second message he received an hour later from the Cybertronian medical ship. They’d confirmed the diagnosis from his medical scans and had refused his cancellation. They had reset an immediate appointment to provide him treatment.

Megatron sighed miserably. Then he winced when he realized the appointment was that next afternoon. Apparently the Cybertronian medical ship was already docked. They intended to tend to him immediately.

_What would be the fallout for not showing up?_

Megatron tapped through his records. He pulled up an old form he’d completed centuries ago and then stiffened in his chair, alarmed to discover that his blanket cancellation of all annual medical appointments had been overridden. Now his wardens wanted him routinely accessed. That meant he was going to go or there would be _consequences_.

The bored warden that had sent him the text communique had obviously just copied an old threatening comm from long ago, listing out the penalties of disobeying mandates for medical care. It even had a timestamp from many mega-cycles ago.

 _This is slag_ , and Megatron scowled furiously _. You wretches have routinely broken your own rules for my treatment. I would rather go without then deal with the likes of you._

The hypocritical double standard and detached way they bullied him from afar was frustrating. But there was nothing he could do that wouldn’t come with a price that he was unwilling to pay. He had found some measure of peace, and he wasn’t willing to risk that.

 _This is happening,_ realized Megatron. _Especially after they’ve gone and moved me here, to make me convenient._

His medical situation was very worrying, and with some bitterness he imagined that Optimus Prime, being the golden mech, had no such issues with his medical care. The medical ships would routinely stop here to tend to him on their routes between Cybertronian outposts. Since they were in orbit anyway to tend to Optimus, they would insist that Megatron receive his annual inspections now.

No doubt Optimus might even enjoy the interactions with his people, but Megatron had the opposite experience. He had no army and no power. He was growing physically weaker by the vorn as the ravages of his Cybercrosis continued untreated. Genos was far too close to Cybertron. It was far too easy for them to pay closer attention to him.

_It is ironic that the worst of them I have encountered had never even faced me in battle or suffered from the Great War in their lives.  
_

Megatron sank deeper into his chair and lost himself in thought. He was still brooding when another message tinged through to him. Idly he opened it, his optics pointed at the ceiling, almost too glum to pay attention.

When Megatron finally glanced down at the message title, his optics dilated to their widest setting. Then he exploded out of his chair, nearly falling over, then standing straight with a hiss of amazement, his plating flaring with delight.

_I have been accepted into the Grand Poet’s Competition!_

It was an incredible honor within the literary world. Poets and Wordsmiths from all across Cybertron would compete. Fingers shaking harder than normal, Megatron poked at the message and opened the larger document within. He could barely believe it … but there was the proof.

_This is real._

He’d sent in his application some time ago, along with a list of his published works, examples of his wordcraft, and a request that if he was accepted he would need to participate remotely due to being off-world (while being careful not to mention _which_ world he was currently on).

Megatron read through the acceptance communication over and over again. His plating flared until his connections hurt. His internal fans ticked on and rattled merrily within him. He hadn’t expected to be selected, but this was — this was incredible.

 _I remember the last one,_ and Megatron forced himself to settle back into his chair. He had been glued to his vid screen, an active spectator, posting his thoughts and reviews online. _Now I will be one of the contestants._ He looked forward to his peers reactions and reviews almost as much as the joy of composing his pieces.

And so Megatron pored over the rules again, carefully.

There were ten teams of two mechs each, a total of twenty poets. Both mechs were partners, but they were also rivals. Each contestant would be given a set of words that they must use to construct meaning, and their partner/rival would have a similar set. There would be a total of ten sets; the trick would be to construct a meaningful poem, something unique from a limited set of words.

There were two parts to the competition; an overall team award for the best combined poem, and then an individual winner crowned from one of the two partners as the master poet.

Megatron had three days to submit his first two lines of the opening stanza, as did his partner/rival. The two lines from both mechs would be combined into one; the first four lines of the poem. Then the four combined lines would be posted publicly so fellow writers could see the progression, watching and enjoying the competition.

However there was a catch; the first mech to send in his completed lines would be the one to submit the next set of lines, with the two mechs then taking turns battling each other while also trying to complete the piece so that it made sense.

Megatron was unsure if it was wise to be the first to send in his lines. _It might be better to let my opponent craft those sets of lines so I may have a better idea of what he is planning. He should be skilled enough that taking the second turn should not risk the overall competition._

Each set of offerings would be posted as the competition progressed for the immediate review and speculation of the viewing audience. The completed work would then be graded on its own against the other teams for the grand prize.

The hefty prize money was second to the acclaim the winner would receive, and Megatron knew he’d been selected from an incredibly large number of applicants for this competition.

 _This is an honor … perhaps the greatest honor of my life._ His optics gleamed with delight as he tapped out his acceptance. Then he received a packet of information shortly after, along with the name of his opponent.

_Swiftside._

Megatron frowned, his expression growing thoughtful. He did a search on his new rival and partner for the duration of the competition. The mech was new on the poetry scene, but already he was considered a gifted wordsmith.

Megatron purchased and downloaded a pack of Swiftside’s works to get a feel for his opponent and settled down to write. Then he spent half the night pouring over the opening set of words he must use, knowing that complimenting words would have been given to his rival, so that the first four lines would stand a chance of making sense.

It was late in the night cycle when Megatron finally set his data pad aside. He forced himself to trudge over to his berth, knowing he would need his rest to deal with the intense irritation the morning medical visit was going to cause him.

It couldn’t be over soon enough.

*******

 

The next morning Megatron awoke early.

It had been a difficult recharge cycle, but he’d powered through it. Now he found himself working though concepts and putting together his first rough draft while sipping his morning energon. He eagerly poured over his notes from last night. All he wanted to do was work on his new project, but far too quickly it was time to go to his wretched medical appointment.

_I will just deal with — with whatever they throw at me today. This is too important. I need to return as soon as possible to finish these lines. I need to be able to work without distraction._

Megatron was lost in thought even as he left his sheltering bunker. He transformed and drove off while strategizing his lines. He was completely distracted as he traveled to the space dock, entered the medical ship, and then walked through the corridors of the vessel.

But as Megatron approached the large internal medical bay, a faint frown broke through his otherwise stoic face plates. His frown deepened when he came into the main medical bay.

Longslide and Sprocket were standing to the side. They ignored him as usual. They were unfriendly but still professional, thankfully. Megatron didn’t mind them so much and wished they were the ones to tend to him. It was the chief medical officer — a mech named Typhoon — that Megatron was most unhappy to see.

Typhoon reserved for Megatron a strange and petty sort of hate. It was the hate a privileged mech held for others that they had only heard about, but still utterly despised. For Typhoon was too young to have ever experienced the Deceptions in their day. He had never suffered an attack or faced them down in battle or suffered from Megatron’s past actions in any way, but he still absolutely despised the rickety silvery mech on approach.

Typhoon tracked Megatron’s approach, his cool blue optics narrowing in distaste.

Megatron eyed him back, warily. _Best not speak unless spoken to. Just try not to antagonize him and get this over with as quickly as possible.  I have more important things to do then deal with these miserable afts —_ _like win a poetry competition!_

Megatron inclined his helm sharply at the medic, and then flinched. Typhoon was bad enough, but he was also very displeased to see Optimus Prime sitting on the opposing berth.

Optimus Prime was being tended by Solarfist. He was chatting easily with the other mechs. The junior medic was plugged into Optimus’ medical ports and was in the middle of a medical scan. He made some sort of cheerful comment and Optimus’ deep, pleasant rumbling voice carried over the medical bay in response.

Longslide laughed from where he was standing a few paces away. He also said something to Optimus, who inclined his helm easily and chuckled. It was all so damned wholesome. _The only thing missing is cheery music and frolicking woodland creatures,_ thought Megatron, hunching over a little. That area of the medical bay was overflowing with pleasant professionalism.

Megatron sighed internally. He was already missing the clinic on Otholla and their dedication to true professionalism. It galled him that a smattering of aliens on a distant rim world could mean so much more to him than his own kind.

Optimus Prime peered at his old enemy from the corner of his optics. His plating was flared slightly and his fists clenched in excitement. The gleam in his optics made him seem almost young.

 _Just try something,_ the excitable Prime’s posture spoke clearly. _I will put you down._

Megatron looked away.

 

*******

 

Typhoon — his plated clasped tightly to his frame — approached and beckoned his reluctant patient towards a medical berth.

Megatron extended his slightly flared plating a little further, unconsciously trying to intimidate the other mech, purely in self-defense. He was afraid to be recognized as weak, even though his health really _was_ that poor … and so he strode forward and grudgingly presented himself before the chief medic.

“Cybercrosis, is it?” asked Typhoon while looking over his data pad. “It couldn’t have happened to a better mech.”

Megatron didn’t react. He refused to dignify that with an answer. Such was beneath him. Worse, he knew it would be the start of something that wouldn’t end in his favor. He knew any such exchange would be logged as noncompliance on his record, to haunt him later.

Megatron really did hate all of these mechs. But he knew that Typhoon would use any excuse to restrain and shut him down for the duration of the appointment. He dreaded being unconscious in medical bays, and so took care to keep his servos at his sides. He resolved not to give the chief medic any reason to harass him further. It seemed best to just grunt and bear it.

_Just get this over with._

But it seemed his worst fears were to be realized almost immediately when Typhoon eyed him and then gestured to the medical berth. “I don’t like your attitude,” and then he activated the restraints on the med table.

“That is entirely unnecessary,” snapped Megatron, deeply frustrated. “You don’t need to restrain me. I have obeyed all of your directions. I just need my treatment and then I will leave.”

Typhoon didn’t answer. He tapped his implement on his data pad and then pointed at the berth again. But the poorly hidden smirk on his face was answer enough as he restrained Megatron anyway.

Optimus Prime was focused on Megatron, but then he saw Typhoon’s poorly-hidden smirk. Behind his battered blast mask, his lips twisted. Anyone who knew him could tell he looked troubled.

The resulting examination was typical of Megatron’s experiences with this group of medics. All of his ports — medical, public, and private — were laid open and bare, including the primary in his helm and the one buried in his chest plates, which meant his spark was bared as well.

“I don’t appreciate this,” hissed Megatron as his chest plates opened and a draft of cool air washed over his internals. He was sure it wasn’t necessary. Certainly not in the middle of the damned medbay where everyone could see!

And everyone _did_ see.

Including someone Typhoon had either completely forgotten about, or simply assumed would stand idly by and enjoy the show. But Optimus Prime did neither of those things. Instead his helm perked up and his audials tuned in to Megatron’s complaints of mistreatment — not unlike a bloodhound.

Megatron hadn’t intended it, but he looked towards Optimus, his eyes catching on the familiar red and blue frame. He realized he was on the verge of panic and tried to quash the intense anxiety he was feeling, but it was too late. Their optics locked.

Optimus read Megatron like a book. “What are you _doing_ to him?”

Now it was Typhoon who frowned. “This is a private matter between myself and my patient, Optimus Prime. Now if your exam is finished, Solarfist can escort you to have your prescriptions filled—”

“My exam is not finished,” announced Optimus Prime, suddenly churlish. He started listing all sorts of symptoms that he hadn’t mentioned before, all while keeping a suspicious optic on Typhoon and Megatron.

Typhoon stepped to the side and tapped the nearby control panel on the wall. A privacy screen materialized an instant later, hiding himself and Megatron away from prying eyes. Or at least that was the intention.

 _Tromp, tromp, shuffle, tromp,_ came the slow lumber of pedes. Two blue audials followed by suspicious blue optics appeared at the edge of the privacy screen. Optimus Prime had a bullish look on his face as he forced his way past the screen. He was interrupting and unapologetic about it.

“Typhoon,” said Optimus, frowning around the digital curtain. “Is restraining Megatron necessary? I’ve been here the entire time and he has cooperated with all of your demands.”

Typhoon affixed Optimus with a patient stare. “Don’t let him fool you. He has been a problem since day one.”

Megatron scowled at that. It wasn’t true, but no one would believe him even if he bothered to protest. This was one of the many reasons he’d stopped interacting with his own kind except through the written word.

“I know that Megatron can be difficult, but that is no excuse to overextend your authority,” warned Optimus Prime, completely ignoring the angry look that Typhoon shot at him.

But Typhoon was quick to assert his own authority. “You are interrupting and being disruptive towards medical staff. You are overreaching what little authority you have and need to return to your berth — Longslide and Solarfist, get over here! — immediately and follow your medic’s instructions.”

“Looking out for a fellow mechanical is far from overreaching,” countered Optimus Prime, standing a little taller. “I will return to my berth, but I want this screen deactivated, assuming Megatron agrees.”

“I agree,” said Megatron, hurriedly. “Drop the damned certain. I am only supposed to receive an injection for — for medical reasons.” He was being honest. He’d agree to anything that would get him out of this miserable situation sooner rather than later.

Optimus nodded down at Megatron. “I will be close by, in case you need me for anything.”

Megatron flinched, less comforted then intended. He didn’t want Optimus to know what he was in for, but from the way Optimus’ optics softened, he had a strong suspicion that Longslide and Solarfist had told him. It was a gross invasion of his privacy, but par for the course on medical ships like these, at least in Megatron’s experience.

It took some effort, but Solarfist managed to get Optimus Prime back to his medical berth, though he failed to get Optimus out of the medbay entirely. Typhoon did deactivate the privacy certain, but only because otherwise Optimus refused to leave. He was too suspicious.

Typhoon frowned and muttered something under his breath about pushy primes. Then he scowled down at Megatron. “The treatment will be rough on you. Your circuits will likely flux. I think I will have to sedate you, and move you into a private room for the remainder of your treatment — for the safety of everyone.”

That was the last thing Megatron wanted. He cringed back when Typhoon came at him with a hypo-syringe filled with some sort of sedative. Rarely had he ever felt so helpless.

Megatron bared his denta fearfully. “I want to be seen by someone _else_. I refuse to consent to—”

But at the last moment, Typhoon stumbled back and dropped the syringe onto the floor. He clutched at his helm, gasping. His fingers curled into claws as he raked them over his face. It seemed as if he was trying to dig something out from underneath his helm.

Then the bizarre episode ended almost as swiftly as it began and Typhoon straightened, now completely relaxed. “My apologies for that awkward display. Now, where were we?”

“I was demanding a different medic,” said Megatron angrily, even as he squirmed desperately in his restraints. “Someone _competent_ at his function and respectful of his profession.”

“Your wish is my command,” said Typhoon, and then a playful grin near cleaved his face in two. “Well, except for the respectful part. I don't believe in any of that ... and it’s _me_ by the way. In case you haven’t noticed.”

Megatron froze at first and then placed the odd inflection. “Starscream,” and he fell limply back onto the medical berth, nearly shaking for relief. “You couldn’t have come at a better time.”

At first Starscream smirked down at Megatron, fully misunderstanding the situation. He was currently in full possession of Typhoon’s frame, looking through Typhoon’s blue optics at his poor, pit-spawned lover restrained to the medical berth. It was obvious that he was openly admiring the view.

“I couldn’t agree more. Look at you, all splayed out like a buffet … having some fun with the medics?” and Starscream laughed, his distinctive way of speaking coming through Typhoon’s vocalizer, but in the frame’s own voice. It was normal, still always disconcerting to Megatron.

“Well, now I get to play doctor.” Starscream leaned in, grinning mischievously through Typhoon’s golden optics. "How about I go and see what sort of diagnostic toys I can find and put to good use?"

All sorts of delicious scenarios were running through Starscream’s pilfered processor; the sorts of play that both he and Megatron would normally indulge in and fully enjoy. But Starscream’s playful mood died a swift death; the exact moment when he realized Megatron’s plating was all askew and his still-bare spark was racing.

Starscream looked Megatron straight in his eyes, and Megatron’s honest flinch gave him pause. Starscream took a step back and reassessed the situation. Then he squinted suspiciously. “Never mind. You weren’t having any fun at all, were you?”

“Not particularly.”

Starscream snorted, but all mirth was gone. Now there was genuine unpleasantness behind his eyes. He glanced over to where he could hear Optimus Prime grumbling, complaining about something.

“Let’s make this a private party,” said Starscream as he tapped at the medical control panel and activated the privacy screen.

"You agreed to leave the curtain down," called Optimus Prime, and now he sounded particularly upset. Longslide and Solarfist were still standing next to him, making soothing noises as the privacy screen reactivated, and remained, despite his protests. Optimus Prime’s suspicious scowl disappeared from view a moment later.

“There, much better,” and Starscream smirked again.

“Starscream,” Megatron greeted his ghost lover with relief. “I haven’t seen you in a while.” His frantically flared plating relaxed to his protoform. Just as quickly as the situation had escalated out of control, Starscream had appeared, bringing sanity with him.

Starscream snorted at the restraints. “I take it this sorry excuse for a medic was harassing you.”

“Unfortunately,” and Megatron completely relaxed while looking up at him. It was such a relief to have Starscream with him that he actually shivered. “You have been gone for some time.”

“Just a vorn or so,” said Starscream, waving off the sentiment. “Though for you that must be an eternity ... now that you have no one to boss around anymore. While _I_ am so busy doing _important things_ that I hardly have time to check up on you anymore. The time flies.”

Megatron just rolled his optics at Starscream’s grandstanding.

Starscream suddenly leaned close, optics flashing. “Hey,” he hissed mischievously. “Now that _we_ are in control here, do you want to have a little fun with this? Perhaps a little revenge?”

Starscream tapped at Typhoon’s interface panels, optics glowing gleefully. There were so many things they could do to a captive frame, and in this sort of situation, he wasn’t above enduring a little pain.

“I would rather not,” said Megatron stiffly. “I miss your old frame and I despise the mech you are currently controlling.”

“Oh I know,” and Starscream grinned in perfect understanding. “I hate this fragger too, now. I can’t believe you just bent over and let him strap you down without a fight.”

Megatron flinched at that.

“I can’t afford the trouble. Anything I do to him would be punished, anyway. I just want to get this over with and then leave. He isn’t worth it, Starscream.” The words hurt to say, but they were the truth. It was a reminder how old and frail he was. It wasn’t a good feeling. But he had a good thing now and he couldn’t risk losing it, certainly not to a bunch of fragging Autobot medics.

“You are no fun anymore,” and Starscream sighed and shook his helm. “What do you need from this glitch anyway — forms signed? Let’s get you on your way.”

“Yes, something like that,” and here Megatron hesitated. Starscream didn’t know about his diagnosis. _Best to admit it least he accuse me of being a turbo rabbit._ He hadn’t wanted to admit his condition to anyone. But Starscream was likely to figure out the truth anyway, what with having access to Typhoon’s processor.

“I am here for treatment for Cybercrosis,” admitted Megatron stiffly, with something that strongly resembled a cringe. “This glitch was just about to move me to another room for the injections.”

“Really? Cybercrosis?” and Starscream blinked as Typhoon’s processor helpfully filled in the gaps of what was supposed to be happening during this appointment. “How long have you known about this?”

Megatron looked away.

That made Starscream particularly unhappy. His stolen optics scanned questioningly around the antiseptic Autobot medical bay. Then they flitted back to Megatron, who was still strapped down.

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” demanded Starscream as he glowered down at Megatron, suddenly offended. “It’s only barely treatable now! Another vorn and you would be terminal!”

“Do you have to ask?” muttered Megatron. “You know why.”

Starscream just scowled at his former leader. _Stupid, stubborn glitch._ “You should have asked me for help, damn you!”

Megatron winced again, staring down at his open, exposed body with a deep, embarrassed frown. “Can we get on with this? I want to leave, sooner rather then later. Apparently my frame will have a strong reaction to the injections. I am supposed to be powered down for treatment.”

Starscream let his accusation stand for a moment longer. His powder-blue hands balled at his sides and then he addressed the problem at hand. “Then you will need a sedative.” He turned for a moment, searching Typhoon’s captive memory banks for the location of the supplies needed.

“I would rather be awake, Starscream.” Megatron said quietly.  “No matter how unpleasant the process is.”

“Fine, fine. I know you can handle it.”

Starscream put his servos on his hips as his optics tracked over Megatron’s open ports. Suddenly he didn’t like seeing Megatron so bare, so vulnerable and exposed. It whispered of a chronic fragility; something he’d never seen in Megatron before.

 _It does not suit him,_ thought Starscream, apprehensively. “They were setting up a room for you for treatment. There is a good chance you will purge fluids out of every port … do you want to move there or stay here for this?”

“Stay here,” and Megatron scowled down at the restraints, tugging at them haplessly. “Are these actually needed?”

Starscream tilted his helm. He accessed Typhoon’s memories and then nodded solemnly. “A percentage of patients have uncontrollable spasms after the initial injection. You might thrash and injure yourself. Patients are supposed to be secured according to this wretch’s memory files.”

“Are you certain this is safe?” asked Megatron, suddenly nervous. _Uncontrolled spasms?_

“Quit fussing. I know what I am doing,” and Starscream blinked and corrected himself. “Or rather, Typhoon knows what I am doing.”

Starscream’s optics drifted longingly to Megatron’s open interface panels. Once again Starscream was reminded of his own loss, as he missed his old body. He deeply missed their trysts along with the wild, aggressive thrashing that was so common in their interfacing. No one had ever kept Starscream’s interest like Megatron had.

“Fine,” Megatron hissed, miserably. “Let’s get this over with.”

Starscream nodded at him and turned to fetch the two needles. Typhoon had already prepped everything, which meant he’d already filled them with the duel medication needed to treat Megatron’s condition.

Megatron stopped worrying at his restraints with a defeated sigh.

A flash of blue and red movement caught the corner of his optic, and Megatron realized Optimus Prime was watching him. Their optics caught and held for just the briefest moment.

Megatron was further mortified to see honest worry and sympathy in his old enemy’s expression. Optimus was too far away to overhear their conversation, but from the way Optimus was looking at him, Megatron’s misery must be apparent in every line of his plating.

Megatron looked away sharply and then shuttered his optics to wait. _Hurry up,_ he thought after his ghost lover.

_I hate this._

*******

 

Starscream strode into the prep room as if he owned it. But when he approached the surgery berth in the adjoining surgery room already prepped for Megatron’s treatment, the possessed frame stopped in confusion. The room was correctly prepared, but the tray next to the medical berth had only one syringe resting on it.

Starscream approached the injector and picked it up. Then he frowned as other thoughts attached to the concept of an injection wandered through the captive processor. _What in the name of_ ... and then Starscream whirled back around and strode out of the room. He looked sharply at Megatron, who was facing away from him and oblivious.

Starscream’s frown deepened to a furious scowl as Typhoon’s memories of setting up the table filtered through.

_This glitch was going to kill him!_

Starscream reared back, stunned. _He was going to inject him with a cyber-neuro toxin and then blame his death on the Cybercrosis! And no one would have questioned it_.

Starscream burned with rage as his stolen optics track over to Megatron, who was still bound to the medical table, open and defenseless. _I would have lost him today. I would have lost him and never known he was murdered_.

It was an old fear, always looming at the horizon.

Starscream was immortal, trapped in the corporeal world as a floating spark. When Megatron finally succumbed to the ravages of time the two lovers would be parted for the rest of eternity. It was deep and dreadful, this fear that gripped him at the thought of such loss.

Starscream stood silently in the doorway of the surgery room. Typhoon’s plating was fully flared, reflecting the horror of the ghost within. Starscream quietly looked over at the exposed frame of his old lover. His gaze lingered over Megatron's tucked silver plating with his open panels and ports. Megatron's regal, delicate crest was folded against his head, and his cranial side-panel was open, his processor lights flickering.

Starscream bit the light blue mech’s lip plating while looking down at the oblivious, captive frame he was controlling, his fear morphing into a hot, pulsing fury.

 _You miserable piece of slag_.

*******

 

Megatron relaxed further as Starscream finally returned with two full syringes; the treatment for his Cybercrosis. Restrained, Megatron had been left wondering what was wrong as it had taken Starscream some time to return to him.

 _Thank Primus for you_ , though Megatron didn’t say it aloud. He still had something of a badass reputation to maintain, however tattered it had become. Then he noted the barely restrained fury in Starscream’s captive frame. He cocked an eye ridge at the other mech.

“Problem?”

“You have no idea.”

Starscream stepped close to his old lover, and tapped the injector to remove any air bubbles from the line. Megatron watched nervously as Starscream worked Typhoon’s intakes raw. He could see Starscream was wildly disheveled. It wasn't a good look.

Starscream broke the heavy silence like a sudden storm. "Do you remember if he powered you down during your previous medical visits on this stupid ship?” There was a grinding noise when he clenched his denta forcefully. His stolen optics caught and held on Megatron’s with intensity. If he still had wings, Megatron was certain that they would be twitching furiously.

Megatron frowned nervously. “Yes. Every damned time, actually.”

“Do you know why?”

“He claimed to be worried I was going to harm him and his staff," and Megatron looked harried when he said it and then blinked when Starscream hissed at him, clearly upset.

“ _Wrong_. This piece of slag was mistreating you while you were senseless. Even worse, you haven't received a single one of your medical procedures. That is why they never uncovered your Cybercrosis while it was in its earlier stages." _  
_

Megatron grumbled low in his throat, baring denta blunted by the years. But eons of war had marked him, hardened him, and so he otherwise accepted the news calmly enough. He was irritated and annoyed, but far from destroyed by the news.

“Mhn. I wondered, sometimes. I never felt better after my appointments,” and Megatron sighed. The old Decepticon creed was ‘get mad … and get even' but he was sick and oh so weary of it all. He leaned his helm back, too tired to really process.

“I think I will kill him,” hissed Starscream, more then offended for them both.

“If you do get rid of him I won't mind,” and Megatron’s sharp denta bared in a flash of his former aggressive self, “But also be careful that it can’t be pinned on _me_. They would find the darkest, dankest hole and then throw away the key.”

Starscream laughed, optics flashing darkly. “Hey _,_ it’s _me_ , remember?”

 

*******

 

Optimus Prime was not happy with what he was seeing.

He was several hours late to his appointment, intentionally so. After learning the time of Megatron’s appointment, he’d delayed until then, intending to support the staff if Megatron was as much a problem as the medics had previously complained he would be. They’d told him that Megatron was treacherous; a constant thorn in their sides.

But Megatron hadn’t so much as lifted a finger or said a word in disrespect. He’d complied with every instruction, and yet the chief medic was not behaving professionally with him. The replacement of the privacy screen was particularly upsetting. It concealed what was happening and Optimus no longer trusted these mechs. The last thing he’d expected to happen today was to be worried about his old enemy.

Now Optimus' back was creaking as he leaned way out, trying to keep an optic on matters. Optimus scowled when Typhoon grabbed Megatron’s face and leaned in close, hissing something he couldn’t hear. The dark smile was plain to see, though.

Optimus craned his neck, trying to listen to the mumbled conversation behind the concealing privacy screen, while Solarfist prattled on in his audials, seeming uncomfortable. Then Longslide stepped aside and his helm dipped past Typhoon’s privacy screen, looking at the two mechs on the other side. He was just outside of Optimus’ range of view.

“Typhoon?” Longslide asked around the screen, “Do you need help wheeling him back to the prep room?”

“No,” said Typhoon with an unpleasant laugh. “We are fine here.”

Longslide blinked at him, worried. “Just asking, for privacy reasons,” and he flicked his optics frantically in Prime’s direction. “He is watching,” and his face twisted for worry. “This doesn’t look ... professional.”

Starscream just gave him a lovely smile. “All is well under control here, _junior_ medic.”

Longslide winced at that, and reluctantly turned his attention back to his own patient. He plodded back to the nearby medical berth, while giving the glowering Optimus Prime a weak smile.

 

*******

 

A few moments later and Starscream was ready to inject.

Before Starscream did though, he leaned over his old leader. The decepticon warrior within was raging and he hissed, “We could have a little fun with this fragger — if you like. I could help you take your revenge on him. You know he deserves it.”

Megatron’s vocalizer was firm. “No. I can’t afford the trouble. Not now.”

“Hmm,” Starscream said, thoughtfully. “Well, _I_ might as well have a little fun with this.”

“No, let it go,” Megatron repeated, frustrated. “Prime will interfere anyway.”

“I remember when you used to have respect for yourself,” and now Starscream looked offended. “I remember a time when no mech in their right mind would _ever_ dream of doing something like this to you.”

Megatron sighed. “Those days are long gone. Just … give me the injection and let me up.”

“Prime has no power anymore,” Starscream retorted, unwilling to let it go. “He is a relic of days gone by, and everyone that ever really cared what he has to say is dead. Trust me, he is powerless as...”

Starscream hesitated, but then set his mouth into a thin line, “As powerless as you are.”

“Understood,” said Megatron, without heat. “But he will still interfere.”

Starscream scowled, but his expression changed rapidly to another lovely smile as inspiration struck. “Do you trust me?”

“Oh _frag_ that,” Megatron snorted. “No, Starscream, not at all.”

Starscream grinned fondly at his old leader through Typhoon’s optics. _Oh come on._

Megatron frowned again, desperation starting to edge into his expression as he tested his restraints. _Absolutely not, whatever you are planning — just no._

Starscream sighed and leaned in. He carefully gave Megatron his first injection. Megatron settled down and then huffed when the burn hit his lines as the medication started its work. His fuel tanks started to churn, as warned.

Megatron started to swallow and work his intakes. Projectile vomiting? Now he believed it. His fuel tank was starting to burble violently, but he was determined not to lose control.

Starscream grinned evilly then. He flicked a glance over where Optimus Prime was trying to watch over the restrained mech, clearly worried for Megatron’s safety.

Megatron strained a bit as he tried to look over as well, but Starscream’s stolen frame was blocking his view. He abruptly saw a bit of red and blue plating as Optimus shifted to try and see past Starscream’s frame. Optimus’ colors were muted through the privacy screening.

Then Starscream climbed up onto the medical berth, straddling the startled Megatron, who rolled his optics for the theatrics and repeated his demand for Starscream … err, Typhoon, to cease and desist while he tested his restraints again.

But Starscream didn't back off.

Then Megatron shook his helm as Starscream’s intentions suddenly become crystal clear to him. “Don’t you dare!” hissed Megatron, squirming awkwardly. _I don’t want the trouble!_

Megatron gasped as his tanks started to churn wildly, the contents pushing their way back up his throat. He swallowed and swallowed, but it wasn’t helping much.

Megatron choked.

“Oh you know you want it,” Starscream said very loudly in Typhoon’s voice. _He deserves this. There will be no justice for you otherwise._

Starscream smirked back at Megatron.

“Open wide…” Typhoon’s body said, and extended his spike.

“Starscream,” Megatron hissed softly, his tone now fully desperate. “I have better things to do then deal with the mess this will cause!”

“Don’t worry about that,” assured Starscream as he grinned down at his hapless leader. “I will handle everything.” Then Typhoon’s spike poised over Megatron’s intakes.

_Here it comes…_

There was a furious roar, and a blue and red blur charged past the privacy screen and attacked.

 

*******

 

“You call that a punch?”

Starscream was determined to make sure Typhoon was going to get a damned good beating.

Optimus Prime was properly outraged and keen to oblige. “If you think I am going to stand idly by while you abuse your patient, you have another thing coming!”

“Oh really,” Starscream snarled through Typhoon’s vocalizer, “You think so? I do this every damned time he comes in and no one gives a frag.”

Starscream suddenly paused, and his stolen optics went wide for a moment, then narrowed. “I even sent recordings to the wardens back home for fun.”

Optimus Prime looked furious. “We will see about that.”

 

*******

 

“I said let him up,” and Optimus Prime took another threatening step forward. Internal fluid coated his knuckles. Typhoon's internal fluid. It was something of a feat, considering how rickety the old Prime was. His servos trembled and his joints creaked, but his eyes still blazed.

There was a long moment when Typhoon blinked and shook his helm, as if something had been in his mind and then was gone. Then he stared at his own fluids leaking down his chest. Startled, he reached up to touch his pretty face. Then he looked over at Megatron and then frowned at Optimus Prime, unsure what possessed him to harass Megatron while the Prime was in range to witness it.

But Typhoon relaxed a moment later ... for the last words he recalled saying were correct. No one in a position of power would ever take such complaints seriously. He couldn't imagine anyone sticking their neck out for Megatron, senile old Primes notwithstanding.

“Fine,” Typhoon snapped back, and then stepped forward. “Watch yourself,” he warned Megatron as he removed the restraints. “I will have you sent straight back to Garrus-6 if you start anything. You think you’re treated harshly here — murderer? Just wait until the wardens get their servos on you.”

“Understood,” Megatron said through clenched denta. This was beneath him. He just wanted to leave.

Optimus was furious. He glowered at Typhoon as the medic strode stately away, and then started to follow after. He had no intention of letting the matter drop. He startled though when Solarfist pulled on him, marching him away from the scene.

He was still glowering when Longslide, now under Starscream’s control, walked over and grinned at Megatron. Starscream looked over towards where Typhoon was leaving, trailing  internal fluid behind him. Then he injected Megatron with the second, final dose.

Megatron blinked in dismay. “Is that true? He was recording me while I was unconscious? What else has he been doing?”

Starscream gave him an honest-to-primus sympathetic look.

 _I hate that look_ , thought Megatron and he grumbled, disliking the twisting feeling that winded through his fuel tanks. He knew Typhoon was a glitch, but he hadn’t realized what a complete scoundrel the mech actually was.

“Wait,” said Megatron, suddenly suspicious. “He hasn’t — not with my frame?”

“No,” Starscream assured him without hesitation, well aware of how deeply such news would affect him. “He never went so far as that.” Then Starscream offered a small but rather evil smile. _Don’t worry. I won’t leave this to stand._

Megatron relaxed, feeling massively better for that unspoken promise, and especially that his frame had not been defiled by the medics. He had no doubt Starscream would be true to his word. After all, Starscream was not a mech with whom to frag.

Optimus Prime remained standing to the side and turned to regard Megatron as the other gathered himself and sat up, shakily. Eyes softening, he approached and offered his servo to help Megatron to his pedes.

Megatron stared for a moment, and then carefully took the offered hand. He staggered to his feet, shifted his weight, and his fuel tanks lurched. He barely made it to the sink.

As Megatron heaved, he felt a heavy palm land on his back. It patted him awkwardly. He side-eyed Optimus Prime suspiciously, as if he feared being cheaped in the back. But the expression on his old enemy’s face was friendly now; far too friendly and far too protective.

 _He must be very lonely_ , and Megatron wiped his mouth and looked back at Longslide. He slumped when he realized Starscream was gone, no doubt back to whatever politician he was currently inhabiting long term.

He could relate.

 

***

 

Megatron relaxed back onto his makeshift berth.

His fuel tanks were still upset, and the expected weakness was starting to manifest. The shaking in his limbs was upsetting, and to distract himself, he ran words over and over in his mind, trying to find some way to make them relevant to the overall poem itself. Now that his treatment was complete, and now that Starscream had promised to take care of everything, he could truly relax.

Now the poetry competition was overriding all other concerns. Megatron was deep in thought when a soft flicker of light caught his attention, and a glowing blue ball of flickering energy appeared above him. There was the faintest outline of a mech, a seeker frame, floating above him.

“Starscream,” and Megatron smiled faintly. “I don't feel myself, but if you don't mind, then come, and welcome.”

There was a flash from the ghost spark, and a sense of happiness. Then Starscream floated down and vanished into Megatron's chest, taking up residence in Megatron's own spark chamber. Megatron's back arched, and his fingers clenched, and then he relaxed as his spark joined with and nestled close to Starscream's.

It was the sweetest comfort.

They had been lovers for a long time, a stormy relationship while Starscream was alive, and a far gentler relationship now that he was dead, locked into existence as a ghost. These moments spent together meant much to him, the few times Starscream was desiring to rest with him like this.

Megatron felt the seeker’s presence within him, but his will was far too powerful for the other to overwhelm. It was the one strength that never failed him, no matter how weak and frail his metal became. He would never have a new body now, and when this one gave out, he would be finished. It was a truth he was at peace with, for he had lived long enough.

 _I've handled everything,_ was Starscream's thoughts, whispering from his spark. _The ship to take you back arrives tomorrow._

 _I love you,_ he didn't say, though Megatron heard him all the same.

Megatron closed his optics and smiled.

 

*******

 

“I can’t believe this!”

That next morning Megatron had received the latest response from Swiftside. It was the second-to-last stanza of the competition. At first Megatron was furious. Megatron howled, he roared, he threw chairs.

His clever opponent had crafted a true masterpiece of a response. The words Megatron must use in his own responding compositions were disjointed; an utter mess. It was clear that he faced a worthy opponent in Swiftside, and he was both delighted at the skill of his fellow wordsmith and infuriated at the challenge his rival was offering him.

“You vile, wretched excuse for a poet!” roared Megatron, and another chair bounced off the wall.

The reviews on the added piece were glowingly positive for the latest addition to the poem. This latest was Swiftside’s best offering yet, and so many of the audience were excited. They were anxiously awaiting Megatron’s response — they too could see the mess that the rival poet had left for his opponent/partner in this bout. It was obvious that Swiftside had no intention of making things easy for Megatron.

Swiftside had thrown down a challenge and it was obvious that his personal competition with Megatron was more important to him then crafting the poem to make sense … to win the overall competition. _It is left to me to not only respond appropriately using the words provided, but have them make sense in the overall creation itself._

It was a massive challenge. Megatron intended to fight Swiftside to the last word, and clenched his fists in fury.

“You wretched glitch of a mech!” roared Megatron again as he threw another chair, invigorated like when he was young, and then the door to his little abode exploded inward.

Optimus Prime stood just inside the door, blue and red plating flared, his fists clenched, all weapon systems readied for battle. “Megatron! Are you under attack?!”

Megatron just blinked at him.

The chair rolled over and settled.

Cyber-crickets chirped.

“In a matter of speaking… yes.” Then Megatron blinked again. “Were you lurking outside my bunker?”

“Yes,” Optimus admitted. Now there was a blush of color around his face plates. “I need to talk to you. I was ... informed that you will be returning to Ortholla, soon. I wanted to say goodbye. I was just about to announce myself when I heard the commotion.”

“Mhm.”

After a long appraising moment, Megatron gestured Optimus towards a chair. “You certainly seem more inclined to chat. I can’t imagine what you would find so interesting now, considering you never answered any of my previous communiques?”

Optimus blinked at him. “I _did_ send you messages. You never answered.”

Megatron and Optimus stared at each other. Then they recalled that all messages were relayed though Cybertron. It was a condition of their banishment and both came to the same inescapable conclusion. Cybertron preferred they not speak to each other, and that amounted to an unspeakable number of lonely evenings that needn't have been.

Megatron frowned, suddenly upset. “I see.” 

Optimus sat in the offered chair. After another long moment, he asked why Megatron was abusing his furnishings. Megatron remained cautious, and didn’t give Optimus too much information regarding his clandestine writings. He didn’t fully trust Prime, but he did answer the question finally, allow for a little back and forth.

Optimus Prime found the answer fascinating. He and Megatron ended up chatted together for the rest of the night. As he was leaving, Optimus Prime hesitated in the door. "I still haven't ... I still need to ask you something."

Megatron tilted his helm. "What is it, Prime?"

“Take me with you.”

 

*******

 

Optimus Prime and Megatron stood in the window of the space freighter Starscream had chartered to take Megatron back to Otholla III.

Megatron was furiously typing. He was at the last stanza and his clever opponent has done everything in his power to derail him. But Megatron had a plan and now it was coming together.

Optimus leaned over his shoulder. “Those are the previous lines?”

“Yes,” said Megatron, distractedly. “He submitted his first two lines before I did, and so wrote the next set of four.”

“I am not much for poetry, I admit, but those lines don’t seem—”

“Exactly,” said Megatron with a sibilant hiss. His plating flared and his optics flashed. “He was trying to undermine me! The fiend kept setting me up with words that couldn’t flow together.”

“I see.”

Optimus didn’t really understand. He wasn’t a wordsmith. But he gamely read over the lines anyway and then his optics brightened when he caught on to Megatron’s counter strategy. “So you developed the poem to be about disjointed words … incoherent and contrary situations.”

“Indeed.”

“Mmm. That would mean those next lines are his, then. They seem very—”

“Clever. Yes. He has been an excellent opponent,” and Megatron settled back into his chair with a contemplative look. His fingers hovered over the keys as he pondered.

“His contrary nature means we will not likely win the overall competition. Most of the other teams have set aside the competitive element of the competition in favor of working together to make a more proper poem. But it matters not; our efforts remain of value and interest as a true literary battle.”

“The journey often means more than the destination.”

“Mhn.”

Megatron was well satisfied with his creation. He was _particularly_ pleased that his literary war with Swiftside was the highlight of the competition. The responses and arguments and reviews were pouring in for their piece, well over any other poem, with their lines highly anticipated. It felt so wonderful to be held in such esteem by his peers.

For the first time in eons, Megatron felt like he was back in the arenas again; surrounded by cheering mechs, on the cusp of victory over a worthy opponent.

Speaking of worthy opponents…

“So, are you ready for this?” and Megatron looked over at his old adversary. “The pirates will give no quarter. Lately they’ve been using a newer generation of armored mech suits. They _will_ be a challenge.”

Optimus Prime couldn’t have looked any happier.

“Bring it on.”

 

*******

 

The first of the trade ships arrived right on time. And sure enough, right as a rough-running silver tank and an equally ancient Cybertronian truck crested the ridge, Brokedown Town fell under attack.

“Pirates, again,” snarled Megatron, squinting at the armored attackers swarming from a hovering ship like angry ants. “And I know that ship and the captain. He’s a wretched glitch — been a ceaseless pain in my aft for the last several vorns.”

The clinic was taking damage; Megatron could see several of the medics trying to evacuate the wounded. He saw one of them take a shot in the leg, collapsing to the ground.

Megatron snarled wordlessly.

Next to him, Optimus Prime rumbled his engine and transformed to assess the situation. His plating was flared, blue optics flashing. This is what the Prime was built for; this is what he’d missed for so long.

Below, the sounds of screams and cries for help drifted on the wind as the civilians of Otholla fled their homes.

Megatron set his jaw.

“Ready?” Megatron asked, offering his fist to the other mech.

Optimus Prime clanked fists with his old enemy. “Let’s roll,” and together they stormed into the fray.

 

***

 

**Many, many vorns later…**

 

Starscream floated over what was to be Megatron’s final resting place.

Little more than a disembodied spark, Starscream was unseen and unnoticed by the aliens scurrying about, but he was still very much a threat, if need be. It was just that he needn’t be.

Megatron wasn’t laid to rest, not yet. He’d fallen in battle at last, but the locals had stolen his body and hidden it from the medical ship tasked to retrieve it. Even when questioned sharply, the aliens refused to admit what they’d done with Megatron’s shattered frame.

Grief-stricken, Starscream had rampaged across the stars to set things right once again, but when he’d finally tracked Megatron’s frame to this quiet spot in the hillside, he found himself standing down.

The truth was that the aliens had wanted to keep Megatron’s memory themselves; they wanted to build their own shrine for him. They knew from the complaints of the Otholla medics that Cybertron hadn’t treated their great hero well at all. They were worried his body would not be prepared and laid to rest with proper respect.

Optimus Prime, even though deeply affected by the loss, did not impede them. He understood and approved of their wishes, and continued to defend the town. He was deeply loved by the populous. Appointed an official position with the local garrison, he had thrown himself into confrontation after confrontation; an unyielding sentinel keeping the little folk safe.

Understanding the depth of their feeling, Optimus had chosen to look the other way when the medical team from the _The Healing Oath_ arrived and the security detail sent to Megatron’s home could not locate Megatron’s frame for retrieval to Cybertron.

At first Starscream kept a solemn vigil, watching critically as the aliens cleaned Megatron’s frame, anointed him with their sacred oils, and lavished his resting place with all the weapons and supplies that they were certain he would need in the afterlife.

It was more — so much more — then Cybertron would have given; more sincere, more heartfelt, more respectful … and Starscream found himself strangely satisfied with their efforts.

Little more than a ghost, Starscream watched the proceedings unnoticed, appearing entirely unmoved. But there was a tale-tell tremor to his wings, especially when they lowered Megatron into the ground and began covering his frame with soil.

Starscream’s shivering wings were the only hint to the truth; he was beside himself with grief.

Then Megatron was finally gone … and it was more than death that separated them. Thanks to Starscream’s immortal spark, now they would be separated for all eternity — never to touch again.

“I won’t miss you,” said Starscream to the silvery-cold frame hidden under the ground.

The bitterness of that lie nearly choked him.

 

 

***

 

Time passed.

Starscream never aged. Thankfully there was always a disaster that needed averting, always some political meddling to be done, even until the end of days. Even as the stars themselves began to fade out; the great fires burning low and then ebbing.

Time passed.

Round and round marched the eons, seemingly empty and endless.

When the last Cybertronian spark faded out, Starscream was there to witness, until only he remained. He was too proud to weep for himself — trapped as he was — and so he floated silently across a barren, empty existence for another eon.

Time passed.

Eventually his wanderings took him to a rimworld, long since cold and dead and dark. It was there that he visited a lonely tomb, marked by a gravestone so warn by time as to be almost gone.

Starscream keened…

…his spark flare gleaming across the heavens in a depthless grief.

With all the stars gone out, it was just bright enough.

_There you are._

_I’ve been looking forever for you._

There was a flash of brilliant light as heaven reached down in the form of a glossy black hand in offer.

And two sparks, one lost and one searching, found each other at last...

... and crossed over to the other side together.

 

 


	9. (Megatron/Optimus - Amalgamation) Free Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the Amalgamation Universe. You do not need to read [ Amalgamation ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955560/chapters/11378809) for this story to make sense. It is meant to be a stand-alone work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Dark themes, non-con sticky sex, slavery, abusive situations, explicit content … might want to stay away if not your thing.

 

Optimus Prime was not prone to panic under ordinary circumstances.

It was just that current circumstances were anything but ordinary. Optimus barely held back a cry while clutching at Megatron’s arms. His legs clenched tighter around Megatron’s hip struts. He could feel the fierce rattle of Megatron’s frame, along with the roar of modified flight turbines hauling their heavy frames high into the aether.

They were so high up as to make the ground an indistinct blur. It was too damned high — and they were _still_ gaining altitude. Megatron seemed determined to take them as high up as he could manage. Which was very, very high. The pathetic natural fuel on this miserable rim world wouldn’t let them break orbit, but it brought them damned close. Yet leaving their new home-in-exile wasn’t Megatron’s aim in this, as far as Optimus could tell.

“Why?”

Optimus had to shout his question over the rushing wind. He knew he risked the slave coding’s ire to question his owner. Normally he might stay quiet, but this was just too much. “Why are you doing this?”

Megatron chuckled, the sound lost to the roaring winds. But his grip around Optimus’ frame tightened.

Finally Megatron shouted back, “It’s called talon locking!” — which didn’t explain a single thing. It was some type of interfacing, that much Optimus was certain. He could tell by the thrum of anticipation and arousal coursing through his captor. It matched his own arousal, thanks to an unwanted hum below.

Optimus wasn’t pleased in the slightest, but his frame wasn’t his own anymore. Ever since the Galactic Council had rounded up the last of the Transformers and exiled them to this harsh rim world, things had gone badly for the Autobots.

Galvatron and his Sweeps — also exiled — had begun an immediate war of attrition. He had hunted the Autobots down, killing them and converting the bodies to Sweeps to add to his forces. Adding insult to injury, he had infected Optimus with an old version of slave coding. Optimus had eventually escaped Galvatron’s clutches, but the slave coding had transferred to Megatron during a surprise encounter.

Megatron had been _thrilled_.

Now, several months after that dreadful day, they were still carving out a life in the desolate wasteland that was their new home. Optimus languished in captivity. He longed for escape, but thanks to Megatron’s careful tending, he'd had no luck. Megatron was in full control of both their lives and was unrepentant in his “guardianship” of his captive. Even worse, he was enjoying every moment.

Well, whatever talon-locking was, Optimus didn’t want any part of it. Alas, Megatron must have suspected that would be the case; hence the inconspicuous little vibrator nestled into Optimus’ valve. Megatron had nestled the little device in one of his most sensitive places before leaving the base.

‘So that you will be ready for me, as I am for you,’ Megatron had crooned, holding him close while slipping the device inside, teasingly slow. He must have known Optimus wasn’t going to enjoy his little game and it was part of his preparations to force the issue. Now the device was warm from use and still humming merrily, teasing his internal sensors.

 _He’s been looking forward to this all morning_ , Optimus realized. It explained why their normal daybreak interface never happened. _He was saving himself for this._ _Damn him. Damn him to the pit.  
_

The growing ache between Optimus’ legs was as much unwanted as it was effective. He winced as little beads of lubricant pearled along his clenched intimate panels. The feel of Megatron’s delight through his EM fields buffeted Optimus as much as the wind rushing over his plating. Slipping his fingers through the emergent mess, Megatron’s plating flared for anticipation. He nipped at Optimus’ sensitive audial as they rose higher and higher into the air.

“Exhilarating, isn’t it?”

“That is _not_ ,” and Optimus closed his optics in near panic, “the word I would use for this!”

With a sharp, barking laugh, Megatron gave Optimus’ intimate panel a strong squeeze. It sent an electric tingle up Optimus' spinal strut as Megatron strained his modified flight engine to the utmost. They burst through a thick cloud bank and into the light of the sun above.

Optimus could feel the heat of Megatron’s silvery plating, hotter than the sun. It warmed him against the chill of the atmosphere. He could feel Megatron’s thick spike, sleek and pulsing, pressing insistently against his lower abdominals. His valve throbbed and ached, and a thrum of arousal and fear drew the tension ever tighter.

Thoroughly enjoying himself, Megatron was already fully extended, hot and ready. His heavy spike was taut and leaking lubricant at the tip where it lay tucked between their frames. Megatron struggled to maintain his speed as he hauled Optimus as high into the stratosphere as possible.

Meanwhile, Starscream and his Armada were flying beneath them. The sleek jets flew upward and then darted through the skies beneath Glorious Leader.

Everyone had been inspired by Megatron’s announcement that he was going out for a flight ... especially when they realized he was dragging a suspiciously squirming Optimus Prime with him. Scores of curious optics had watched as he strolled towards the main entrance to the wrecked alien ship they had claimed for a base.

Skywarp had nudged Starscream and pointed at Optimus. The Armada noted his mincing steps, the way his fingers clenched above his intimate paneling, and especially the drops of lubricant he left in his wake. It confirmed their suspicions and everyone had cheered Megatron on as he passed, ribbing them hard.

Megatron had merely laughed — no shame within him — and everyone with wings decided it _was_ a good idea. Leaving the grounders behind, the Armada had polished their plating until shiny and then headed out to play.

Now the Armada filled the skies with their sleek frames and bright colors. They swooped and playing amongst themselves, chasing each other back and forth. Sometimes a sonic boom from Thundercracker marked their changing positions as they darted and swirled, but there was no actual interfacing. Instead they were all focused on Starscream. They flexed their ailerons and flashed their wings enticingly at him.

“You have valves too, remember?” shouted Starscream, reminding them again and again. He whirled as he banked, but they matched his movements, undeterred.

Yes, they remembered. It was just that no one was going to offer, as anyone who did would be harried relentlessly after that. No one wanted a reputation as a valve mech, simply for the sheer, endless flirting and offers that would ensue thereafter from pretty much every mech on the base. It was stupid, it was senseless, and they all knew it. But no one would be the first to offer.

Just ask Divebomb how much fun _that_ was.

Case in point…

Divebomb streaked past, returning from his new duties. He'd been part of an assassination attempt on Megatron's life and had been brutally punished for it. The result of that had most of the base enjoying him for an evening, which had lasting consequences. As such he was uninterested in play of any type and was racing for the base entrance.

“Frag off!” Divebomb shouted as he flew. He began threatening the two seekers who were chasing after and trying to flirt with him.

One of them shouted after him, “It’s not bestiality if we do it in root mode!”

Starscream did a double take when he realized it was Skywarp doing the shouting. And after he’d already had a twirl with Starscream and several spike-rubbing sessions with Thundercracker and one of the Rainmakers.

That greedy little…

After watching Divebomb beat a hasty retreat, Starscream grinned and then whirled around violently. He executed a tight turn and gunned his flight engines while opening his valve cover and flexing his ailerons.

It was a clear invitation, but more importantly, a clear _challenge_.

The rest of the Armada responded instantly. They gave chase and truth be told, Starscream relished the attention. There were no downsides for him; he was immune to the harassment others would suffer. He had the rank and power to slap the rest of the Decepticons around and keep them properly distant and worshipful.

Swindle had similar protection; he had the rest of the Combaticons for backup. They were a band of brothers and defended each other first and foremost and Swindle was bold for it. He was as open-minded about interfacing as Starscream was, with the sole exception of talon-locking. He refused to talon-lock for any amount of defunct credits or bribery.

“The technique requires too much trust for a mech to really enjoy themselves,” Swindle had insisted. “Too much sensation built up during the drop to enjoy the moment, especially for mechs not used to it.” This was particularly true of grounders. It took repetition to build up enough trust in the flight mech to dull the sense of terror that freefall caused, to the point that interfacing was enjoyable.

And so Swindle refused, waving off any and all offers.

Optimus Prime wholy agreed with the sentiment. He would have refused to play this game, if he could. That lack of agency was foremost on his mind as Megatron lifted them higher and higher. They were far above the darting, twisting seekers, and then well above the cloud line, much to Optimus’ dismay.

With a last burst of speed, Megatron finally reached the highest point he could manage. Then, and with a rumble of anticipation, he locked his leg thrusters and held his position. He mech-handled Optimus until he was resting high on Megatron’s front, powerful servos wrapping around Optimus’ aft. He squeezed Optimus’ tight bottom with a playful grin and his arms caged Optimus’ hips.

“Remove the toy,” Megatron instructed, and Optimus didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned forward and his shivering fingers plunged past his puffy rim to fish the little vibrator out. 

Megatron watched with rapt attention as Optimus touched himself. Then his expression grew sly when Optimus hesitated, the soaking-wet device in hand, slick and humming in his fingers. Optimus didn’t want to ask what to do with it, because he was certain Megatron would think of a course of action he wouldn’t agree with. But Megatron didn’t wait until the slave coding made Optimus ask anyway.

Instead, Megatron grinned and slid his own valve cover aside. “So we don’t lose it,” he said with a sly grin. “No need to hurry.”

Thus instructed, Optimus reached down and parted Megatron. He slicked his fingers with his own fluids as he knew Megatron preferred, and then twined the device between his fingers. He carefully slid the soaking little device up into Megatron, taking his time as ordered. In and out, in and out, each time a little deeper, and Optimus could feel the pleasure he was enticing from Megatron with his every stroke.

“Mmn,” and Megatron rumbled his approval. “That feels good,” and he moved into Optimus’ fingers, nuzzling against Optimus' audial as he savored the intimate touches. His valve pulsed arousal and his fingers clenched tighter around Optimus' aft when Optimus reached his favorite spot.

Once emplaced, the vibrator reoriented to latch on to several of Megatron’s nodes. He shivered, feeling a warning tightness below, but the feel of Optimus' fingers inside him was almost better than even the little device’s thrumming. The vibrations were already generating charge and his lubricant welled freely.

Keeping control, Megatron turned his attention from his aching valve back to his nervous captive. Looking down, he could see that Optimus was already sufficiently wet as intended, and so wasted no time. With a pleased sigh, he sank Optimus onto his ribbed shaft, taking Optimus' soft valve to the hilt.

Megatron felt Optimus stiffen, sensed the strangled moan Optimus was holding back. “No stifling yourself,” he ordered as he felt Optimus’ calipers latch hold, felt the electric tingle as his spike began to feed Optimus' nodes his excess energy.

Megatron breathed a last order — “I want to hear every sound” — and grinned into the curve of Optimus' bare face when the next moan was deep and rumbling. It was everything he could have asked for, and then with a fiendish grin, he cut his flight engines.

They dropped like a stone.

Optimus cried out.

There was so much sensation buffeting him from every direction that he could barely think. His legs clenched around Megatron’s hips. His plating flared in exhilaration for the whipping wind, for the illicit pleasure of Megatron's thick spike throbbing in his valve, but mostly for sheer terror as Megaton twisted in mid-air and sent them into a powerful spin.

Down in the lower stratosphere, the Armada were enjoying themselves immensely. It was Sunstorm that managed to out-maneuver his brothers. He alone managed to keep pace with the talented Starscream, his frame flush with victory.

Acid Storm and Thrust aimed to oust Sunstorm and worked together to take up position at either side of their brother-in-arms, while Starscream watched them all with amusement.

Undaunted, Sunstorm knocked Acid Storm to the side and shot at Thrust, driving them both away. With a flame burst across his plating to warn the others not to interfere, Sunstorm took his earned place at Starscream’s underside. They soared belly-to-belly as Sunstorm extended his spike and pressed in with a cry of delight. He relished his victory in the form of Starscream’s tight valve. It was _glorious_ and then both seekers cut their fight engines and fell as one, twisting and writhing in circles as they tumbled from the sky.

Megatron’s fierce roar sounded as he and Prime — similarly coupled — dropped past the seekers thanks to their heavier combined weight. It didn't take long and Megatron peaked, his optics glowing white for an instant as overload hit. First his spike burst forth, emptying into Optimus in hot spurts, and the energy burst sent his valve over in almost the same moment.

Optimus Prime was holding on to his pit-spawned glitch of an owner with a grip strong enough to dent. He felt as Megatron's frame grew taunt as his owner's overload sent a pulse of energy into Optimus' own valve.

Optimus' mouth fell open and his optics slammed shut. There was not an ounce of trust within him and then he was all but roaring in a mix of pleasure and panic as his valve clenched down for the feverish pulse from Megatron. But the feeling was drowned out for his fear, the sensation too nebulous to coalesce and his tension remained unreleased.

Not so for Starscream, who was having the time of his life. He’d lost count of his own pleasure, and he strained and then overloaded as Sunstorm peaked and emptied out. Then, mere feet above the ground, they activated their thrusters. Arresting their fall, the two seekers separated and darted back up into the sky.

At the same time, Megatron’s flight engines burst to life, slowing and then stopping their fall. They hovered over the ground, and Optimus peered down at it longingly. The wheels on his legs began spinning as if trying to get a grip.

“Prime! You didn’t overload!” Megatron’s tone was disapproving. But he checked himself not a second later, adding, “not that I am displeased with you.” That clarification kept the slave coding from punishing Optimus, the feel of which would have utterly ruined Megatron’s afterglow.

“I think it should be obvious why not,” replied Optimus, his voice stiff and engine growling. His valve still ached and throbbed. He needed release, but remained motionless. He resisted the temptation to ride Megatron's spike, which was still firm and hot in his valve.

Optimus was _upset_ and refused to yield to his need. This was all too damned much, especially from a mech who insisted he gave a damn about Optimus’ well-being. His plating clenched just a little tighter, and Megatron could tell Optimus was feeling threatened. Megatron gave his angry truck a warm squeeze, a touch he intended to be reassuring. Then he pulled said truck closer, his eyes alight with eagerness.

“Regardless, you require relief,” Megatron said, petting Optimus’ aching interface array. “Shall we go again?”

“I…” and Optimus winced when the slaving coding prompted him to agree, if only to please his master. It was to his endless lament that so little of his frame was his own, even his own mind.

Sensing the source of his hesitation, Megatron was swift to offer clarification. “I desire your honesty in this, as in all things.”

Once again, Megatron cut the save code’s interference off. He was learning how it worked by watching Optimus’ reactions. He was determined to keep his captive from suffering any undue punishment, or at least, punishment inflicted by the coding. Punishment inflicted by _him_ , not so much. But the coding’s brutal interference was something that Megatron despised, however much he enjoyed their current predicament.

Megatron blamed the coding for their relationship troubles — and in his mind they _were_ in a relationship — instead of his own callous actions. Although it was true that he could not remove Galvatron's slave coding, Optimus refused to believe Megatron would ever remove it if he could.

For all intents and purposes, Megatron had stolen Optimus from Galvatron’s brutal clutches. In doing so, he had assumed all the responsibly — and illicit pleasures — of owning a code slave. It was galling to Optimus how much Megatron enjoyed their new dynamic.

“I would prefer not,” Optimus huffed in distaste, even with his valve so badly aching. “I dislike interfacing in such a manner.” He wasn’t a thrill-seeker, at least not with his current company, and he said as much.

“Would that change if I allowed you to spike me on the next drop?” Megatron offered, unabashedly slipping two fingers into Optimus’ spike sheath to stroke over his tip. “I am ready for you, if so.”

And thanks to the still-humming vibrator, Megatron certainly was. Megatron retracted his valve panel to prove his intentions, baring himself for Optimus' use. The little vibrator was taken out and subspaced with a flash, leaving his valve sleek and wet and fully on offer. Amused and eager, Megatron stroked over Optimus’ still-healing spikehead — still healing thanks to Galvatron's brutality — and attempted to encourage the shy unit to emerge.

Megatron was well accustomed to Optimus' reluctance. It was due to many things, though Megatron gave the most weight to Galvatron's cruelty. And so he took care to be very gentle. He circled Optimus' tip and traced the slit with his fingertip. He was pleased when Optimus reacted; swallowing thickly and looking away … but he was less than successful as Optimus' spike remained tucked as far inside his sheath as possible.

“I doubt I would enjoy it any better than the last time,” Optimus said, being honest as he must. He was still under orders not to hide his reactions. He was enjoying Megatron’s fingers, however much that they were unwanted, and so his engine rumbled and his hips moved in time to the fingers playing with him, involuntarily encouraging Megatron to continue.

“Oh I disagree,” Megatron said, pumping and stroking over Prime’s reluctant spike. He leaned forward earnestly and added, “Someone once told me they managed to spike each other at the same time by arranging themselves in opposite directions during free fall.”

Optimus mumbled denial. “That … sounds awkward.”

Megatron chuckled agreement and glanced skyward, looking intrigued. “Shall we try again? Surely you would enjoy a second time — now that you understand I would not let you fall.”

“No,” Optimus said sharply.

Looking skyward one last time, Megatron finally decided to be merciful. He eased them carefully to the ground. He let Optimus down and landed, cutting his engines. Then he was further amused when Optimus stepped back on wobbly legs, snapping his intimate panel closed as if he thought Megatron was just going to leave him all hot and aching, to slowly cool down without any satisfaction.

_Like hell._

“Come here,” Megatron ordered cheerfully, eyeing the glimmers of fluid around Optimus’ closed intimate panels. He was more than good for a few more rounds, spike and valve, and he assured Prime he wasn’t to be left in such as state.

Hadn’t he promised to be generous?

Optimus scoffed at that, but Megatron ignored the snub. His optics flashed with renewed anticipation as he gestured for Optimus to reopen his panel. Optimus looked away, frustrated, but had no other choice. His panels opened with a _snick_ as he bared himself again.

Megatron grinned and feasted on the sight. So many times had he given that order, and at no point had seeing the Prime bare himself not sent him into a seething haze of lust. Today was no exception.

“This way,” Megatron said huskily, and Optimus followed him into a nook in the ground, surrounded by large, looming rock formations.

Settling down on his back, Megatron gestured for Optimus to take his place. After a moment of hesitation — which had the coding tinging warnings — Optimus knelt down and straddled Megatron.

Megatron slid back into him, and grinned up at the mech straddling him. “Well, go on then. Enjoy yourself.”

Optimus flinched, glancing around nervously. Above them, the Armada was still playing, diving and swooping. At least it seemed the Armada was legitimately enjoying themselves… and then the coding reminded Optimus that he’d been given an order.

 _Enjoy himself_.

As if being forced into this could be anything more than physically arousing, with his lack of choice in the matter. His aching frame was eager, even as his mind shied away … but there was nothing for it.

With a grunt, Optimus braced himself and mounted his owner. Megatron was a heavy frame and thick; a stretch every single time. He’d feel so damned good, if Optimus wasn’t a helpless captive.  But Optimus was still under orders not to stifle himself and so moaned softly as every sensor he had pinged pleasure. Then he began to rut as ordered. He set a blistering pace, one meant to bring his owner to climax as swiftly as possible. But he was forced to slow when Megatron grabbed him by the hips.

“Not a race,” Megatron murmured, gently squeezing with both hands. He knew Optimus actually preferred a gentler pace. He knew Optimus was merely trying to hurry their interfacing along, and he chose to assume it was because they were in public.

Optimus hated open interfacing, while Megatron and his faction had no such inhibitions. Decepticons considered putting on a show as part and parcel of community service; one of the many differences between their factions.

Floating above them, Starscream watched as Optimus closed his eyes and buried his face in Megatron’s neck, his frame straining feverishly. Starscream smirked. He would bet his wings that Optimus was imagining himself elsewhere, with someone else entirely.

Not so with Megatron, who was grinning down at Optimus with both eyes open, enjoying their coupling in more ways than one. He was _relishing_ his control. He held himself motionless; a rock that Optimus crashed against, again and again, until finally flowing over with sharp, repetitious cries.

For all the prior teasing, Optimus went over _hard_ , and Megatron nuzzled him, murmuring encouragement. His fingers reached down and rubbed Optimus’ anterior node to keep him there for as long as possible.

It looked like the exact opposite of a harsh fragging, and Starscream didn’t like it. “Are you done with your toy?” and his wings flicked enticingly. Normally Megatron would have responded instantly, but this time he merely waved Starscream off. It seemed he was already sated.

Starscream left with a huff. There was a crowd of amorous mechs still chasing after him … but not the one mech he desired above all others. This was happening all too frequently. He was frustrated, as beyond mere lust, there was another reason why he wanted Megatron’s attention.

 _I will make him pay for this somehow,_ Starscream decided. Down below, Optimus pushed off and away from Megatron, on his knees, still venting hard. Starscream snorted and then returned to his trine. They welcomed him with open arms and flicking wings and he decided that was enough. He re-engaged with them, putting Megatron out of his thoughts.

“You shouldn’t spurn him like that,” Optimus told Megatron. He watched as Megatron reached for him, to help him to his pedes.

Optimus winced when the slave coding lanced him for criticizing his owner. He ignored the pain to frown sadly after Starscream, even as his pedes found purchase and he straightened. It upset him to know he was driving a wedge between the two vicious monsters, especially since he didn’t even want to be between them in the first place!

Megatron just shrugged, unconcerned. “He knows he is mine. Best not to let him call the shots in such things; it leaves him lusting for more control.”

Then Megatron looked back up at the sky with a contemplative expression. He’d enjoyed several overloads already, though Prime had only had the one. It seemed unfair. He was feeling calm and wholly satiated, too much so to endure Starscream’s sass.

But Optimus was a different matter.

Megatron was growing more and more attached by the day. Ever since Optimus Prime had been dropped into his lap, he’d been happier than ever before. Whatever his preferences, he was more than willing to put out.

Cocking his helm, Megatron grinned down at Optimus with a mischievous air. “I admit to being satisfied, but I hesitate to leave you at one overload — you might hold it against me. Are you certain you have had enough of talon-locking?”

Megatron ran a hand down his intimate panel in offer. He knew another spike overload was unlikely, and Optimus' own spike was still recovering from the damage Galvatron had inflicted on it, far too much so to be dragged unwilling to the party. Not yet, anyway. But Megatron's spike could be force-pressurized for Optimus' benefit, and he offered as much.

“Please Primus no,” Optimus said, belting the words out in a hurry.

The slave coding allowed this negative response because technically it amounted to begging, and slaves could do all of _that_ that they wanted. In the end, Optimus had no choice in the matter, but thankfully Megatron decided to honor his wishes.

After a bit of ribbing, of course. “Was it really that terrible?”

“I cannot fly!”

“But I am with you and I _can_ fly.”

There was a playful lilt to his words and Megatron was still grinning; somehow both utterly amused and deadly serious. That he was even expecting such trust was galling, and Optimus frowned heavily. It all seemed so hopeless and so he didn't answer as technically he hadn't been asked a question. The slave coding was funny that way. But it didn't matter. His expression explained better than words just how little of his trust was on offer.

“So little faith,” Megatron said with a lop-sided smile. Primus, but he enjoyed interacting with this sad, quiet truck … now more than ever. “Even if it takes me the rest of our lives, I _will_ win you over.”

Optimus ground his denta and dared to mutter something rude. Another wince of pain from the slave coding, and then he looked away, out over the bleak landscape. It was obvious he was dreaming of escape. Such reactions were normal and Megatron did not begrudge his Prime those little displays of resistance.

They were futile and the both of them knew it. 

There were clouds gathering on the horizon, threatening to become yet another vicious storm front. Their new home in exile was as temperamental as it was dreary, and Megatron called off the afternoon’s merry-making. Ignoring the groans, he ordered everyone back inside the derelict alien spacecraft the Decepticons had claimed as a permanent shelter.

“Come,” Megatron said eagerly, gesturing for Optimus to follow him back to the base. “Let us go clean up.”

 

 


End file.
